I 


T' 
I 


BY 

P-MARION 
CRAWFORD 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


GIFT 

of 
Mrs.   Robert  V.  Merrill 


SANT'  ILARIO 


SANT'    ILARIO 


BY 


F.   MARION   CRAWFORD 

AUTHOR  OF  "MB.  ISAACS,"  "  DR.  CLAUDIUS,"  "ZOROASTER," 
"A  TALE  OP  A  LONELY  PARISH,"  ETC. 


"Ntfa  fforfe 
MACMILLAN    AND    CO. 

AND      LONDON 
1893 

All  rights  reserved 


COPYRIGHT,  1888, 
BY  F.   MARION   CRAWFORD. 


First  printed  in  1888.  New  Edition  set  up  and  electrotyped 
January,  1892.  Reprinted  December,  1892;  February,  June, 
November,  1893. 


Notfooofi  ^rega : 

J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.  —  Berwick  &  Smith. 
Boston,  Mass.,  U.S.A. 


TO 

Mitt 

THIS  SECOND  PART   OF  "SARACINESCA 
IS  LOVINGLY  DEDICATED 


829256 


SANT?    ILARIO. 


CHAPTER   I. 

Two  years  of  service  in  the  Zouaves  had  wrought  a 
change  in  Anastase  Gouache,  the  painter.  He  was  still 
a  light  man,  nervously  built,  with  small  hands  and  feet, 
and  a  delicate  face ;  but  constant  exposure  to  the  weather 
had  browned  his  skin,  and  a  life  of  unceasing  activity 
had  strengthened  his  sinews  and  hardened  his  compact 
frame.  The  clustering  black  curls  were  closely  cropped, 
too,  while  the  delicate  dark  moustache  had  slightly  thick 
ened.  He  had  grown  to  be  a  very  soldierly  young  fellow, 
straight  and  alert,  quick  of  hand  and  eye,  inured  to  that 
perpetual  readiness  which  is  the  first  characteristic  of 
the  good  soldier,  whether  in  peace  or  war.  The  dreamy 
look  that  was  so  often  in  his  face  in  the  days  when  he 
sat  upon  a  high  stool  painting  the  portrait  of  Donna 
Tullia  Mayer,  had  given  place  to  an  expression  of  wide 
awake  curiosity  in  the  world's  doings. 

Anastase  was  an  artist  by  nature  and  no  amount  of 
military  service  could  crush  the  chief  aspirations  of  his 
intelligence.  He  had  not  abandoned  work  since  he  had 
joined  the  Zouaves,  for  his  hours  of  leisure  from  duty 
were  passed  in  his  studio.  But  the  change  in  his  out 
ward  appearance  was  connected  with  a  similar  develop 
ment  in  his  character.  He  himself  sometimes  wondered 
how  he  could  have  ever  taken  any  interest  in  the  half 
hearted  political  fumbling  which  Donna  Tullia,  Ugo  Del 
Ferice,  and  others  of  their  set  used  to  dignify  by  the 
name  of  conspiracy.  It  seemed  to  him  that  his  ideas 
must  at  that  time  have  been  deplorably  confused  and 
lamentably  unsettled.  He  sometimes  took  out  the  old 
sketch  of  Madame  Mayer's  portrait,  and  setting  it  upon 
&  B  1 


2  SANT'  ILARIO. 

his  easel,  tried  to  realise  and  bring  back  those  times 
when  she  had  sat  for  him.  He  could  recall  Del  Fence's 
mock  heroics,  Donna  Tullia's  ill-expressed  invectives, 
and  his  own  half-sarcastic  sympathy  in  the  liberal  move 
ment;  but  the  young  fellow  in  an  old  velveteen  jacket 
who  used  to  talk  glibly  about  the  guillotine,  about 
stringing-up  the  clericals  to  street-lamps  and  turning 
the  churches  into  popular  theatres,  was  surely  not  the 
energetic,  sunburnt  Zouave  who  had  been  hunting  down 
brigands  in  the  Samnite  hills  last  summer,  who  spent 
three-fourths  of  his  time  among  soldiers  like  himself, 
and  who  had  pledged  his  honour  to  follow  the  gallant 
Charette  and  defend  the  Pope  as  long  as  he  could  carry 
a  musket. 

There  is  a  sharp  dividing  line  between  youth  and 
manhood.  Sometimes  we  cross  it  early,  and  sometimes 
late,  but  we  do  not  know  that  we  are  passing  from  one 
life  to  another  as  we  step  across  the  boundary.  The 
world  seems  to  us  the  same  for  a  while,  as  we  knew  it 
yesterday  and  shall  know  it  to-morrow.  Suddenly,  we 
look  back  and  start  with  astonishment  when  we  see  the 
past,  which  we  thought  so  near,  already  vanishing  in 
the  distance,  shapeless,  confused,  and  estranged  from 
our  present  selves.  Then  we  know  that  we  are  men, 
and  acknowledge,  with  something  like  a  sigh,  that  we 
have  put  away  childish  things. 

When  Gouache  put  on  the  gray  jacket,  the  red  sash 
and  the  yellow  gaiters,  he  became  a  man  and  speedily 
forgot  Donna  Tullia  and  her  errors,  and  for  some  time 
afterwards  he  did  not  care  to  recall  them.  When  he 
tried  to  remember  the  scenes  at  the  studio  in  the  Via 
San  Basilio,  they  seemed  very  far  away.  One  thing 
alone  constantly  reminded  him  disagreeably  of  the  past, 
and  that  was  his  unfortunate  failure  to  catch  Del  Fence 
when  the  latter  had  escaped  from  Koine  in  the  disguise 
of  a  mendicant  friar.  Anastase  had  never  been  able  to 
understand  how  he  had  missed  the  fugitive.  It  had 
soon  become  known  that  Del  Ferice  had  escaped  by  the 
very  pass  which  Gouache  was  patrolling,  and  the  young 
Zouave  had  felt  the  bitterest  mortification  in  losing  so 
valuable  and  so  easy  a  prey.  He  often  thought  of  it 
and  promised  himself  that  he  would  visit  his  anger  on 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  B 

Del  Ferice  if  he  ever  got  a  chance ;  but  Del  Ferice  was 
out  of  reach  of  his  vengeance,  and  Donna  Tullia  Mayer 
had  not  returned  to  Home  since  the  previous  year.  It 
had  been  rumoured  of  late  that  she  had  at  last  fulfilled 
the  engagement  contracted  some  time  earlier,  and  had 
consented  to  be  called  the  Contessa  Del  Ferice ;  this 
piece  of  news,  however,  was  not  yet  fully  confirmed. 
Gouache  had  heard  the  gossip,  and  had  immediately 
made  a  lively  sketch  on  the  back  of  a  half-finished  pic 
ture,  representing  Donna  Tullia,  in  her  bridal  dress, 
leaning  upon  the  arm  of  Del  Ferice,  who  was  arrayed 
in  a  capuchin's  cowl,  and  underneath,  with  his  brush, 
he  scrawled  a  legend,  "  Finis  coronat  opus." 

It  was  nearly  six  o'clock  in  the  afternoon  of  the  23d 
of  September.  The  day  had  been  rainy,  but  the  sky  had 
cleared  an  hour  before  sunset,  and  there  was  a  sweet 
damp  freshness  in  the  air,  very  grateful  after  the  long 
weeks  of  late  summer.  Anastase  Gouache  had  been  on 
duty  at  the  Serristori  barracks  in  the  Borgo  Santo 
Spirito  and  walked  briskly  up  to  the  bridge  of  Sant' 
Angelo.  There  was  not  much  movement  in  the  streets, 
and  the  carriages  were  few.  A  couple  of  officers  were 
lounging  at  the  gate  of  the  castle  and  returned  Gouache's 
salute  as  he  passed.  In  the  middle  of  the  bridge  he 
stopped  and  looked  westward,  down  the  short  reach  of 
the  river  which  caught  a  lurid  reflection  of  the  sunset 
on  its  eddying  yellow  surface.  He  mused  a  moment, 
thinking  more  of  the  details  of  his  duty  at  the  barracks 
than  of  the  scene  before  him.  Then  he  thought  of  the 
first  time  he  had  crossed  the  bridge  in  his  Zouave  uni 
form,  and  a  faint  smile  flickered  on  his  brown  features. 
It  happened  almost  every  day  that  he  stopped  at  the 
same  place,  and  as  particular  spots  often  become  asso 
ciated  with  ideas  that  seem  to  belong  to  them,  the  same 
thought  almost  always  recurred  to  his  mind  as  he  stood 
there.  Then  followed  the  same  daily  wondering  as  to 
how  all  these  things  were  to  end ;  whether  he  should  for 
years  to  come  wear  the  red  sash  and  the  yellow  gaiters, 
a  corporal  of  Zouaves,  and  whether  for  years  he  should 
ask  himself  every  day  the  same  question.  Presently,  as 
the  light  faded  from  the  houses  of  the  Borgo,  he  turned 
away  with  an  imperceptible  shrug  of  the  shoulders  and 


4  SANT*   ILAEIO. 

continued  his  walk  upon  the  narrow  pavement  at  the 
side  of  the  bridge.  As  he  descended  the  step  at  the 
end,  to  the  level  of  the  square,  a  small  bright  object  in 
a  crevice  of  the  stones  attracted  his  attention.  He 
stooped  and  picked  it  up. 

It  was  a  little  gold  pin,  some  two  inches  long,  the 
head  beaten  out  and  twisted  into  the  shape  of  the  letter 
C.  Gouache  examined  it  attentively,  and  saw  that  it 
must  have  been  long  used,  for  it  was  slightly  bent  in 
more  than  one  place  as  though  it  had  often  been  thrust 
through  some  thick  material.  It  told  no  other  tale  of 
its  possessor,  however,  and  the  young  man  slipped  it 
into  his  pocket  and  went  on  his  way,  idly  wondering  to 
whom  the  thing  belonged.  He  reflected  that  if  he  had 
been  bent  on  any  important  matter  he  would  probably 
have  considered  the  finding  of  a  bit  of  gold  as  a  favour 
able  omen ;  but  he  was  merely  returning  to  his  lodging 
as  usual,  and  had  no  engagement  for  the  evening.  In 
deed,  he  expected  no  event  in  his  life  at  that  time,  and 
following  the  train  of  his  meditation  he  smiled  a  little 
when  he  thought  that  he  was  not  even  in  love.  For  a 
Frenchman,  nearly  thirty  years  of  age,  the  position  was 
an  unusual  one  enough.  In  Gouache's  case  it  was  espe 
cially  remarkable.  Women  liked  him,  he  liked  them, 
and  he  was  constantly  in  the  society  of  some  of  the 
most  beautiful  in  the  world.  Nevertheless,  he  turned 
from  one  to  another  and  found  a  like  pleasure  in  the 
conversation  of  them  all.  What  delighted  him  in  the 
one  was  not  what  charmed  him  most  in  the  next,  but 
the  equilibrium  of  satisfaction  was  well  maintained 
between  the  dark  and  the  fair,  the  silent  beauty  and 
the  pretty  woman  of  intelligence.  There  was  indeed 
one  whom  he  thought  more  noble  in  heart  and  grander 
in  symmetry  of  form  and  feature,  and  stronger  in  mind 
than  the  rest ;  but  she  was  immeasurably  removed  from 
the  sphere  of  his  possible  devotion  by  her  devoted  love 
of  her  husband,  and  he  admired  her  from  a  distance, 
even  while  speaking  with  her. 

As  he  passed  the  Apollo  theatre  and  ascended  the  Via 
di  Tordinona  the  lights  were  beginning  to  twinkle  in  the 
low  doorways,  and  the  gas-lamps,  then  a  very  recent  in 
novation  in  Kome,  shone  out  one  by  one  in  the  distance. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  5 

The  street  is  narrow,  and  was  full  of  traffic,  even  in 
the  evening.  Pedestrians  elbowed  their  way  along  in  the 
dusk,  every  now  and  then  flattening  themselves  against 
the  dingy  walls  to  let  a  cab  or  a  carriage  rush  past  them, 
not  without  real  risk  of  accident.  Before  the  deep,  arched 
gateway  of  the  Orso,  one  of  the  most  ancient  inns  in  the 
world,  the  empty  wine-carts  were  getting  ready  for  the 
return  journey  by  night  across  the  Campagna,  the  great 
bunches  of  little  bells  jingling  loudly  in  the  dark  as  the 
carters  buckled  the  harness  on  their  horses'  backs. 

Just  as  Gouache  reached  this  place,  the  darkest  and 
most  crowded  through  which  he  had  to  pass,  a  tremen 
dous  clatter  and  rattle  from  the  Via  dell'  Orso  made  the 
hurrying  people  draw  back  to  the  shelter  of  the  door 
steps  and  arches.  It  was  clear  that  a  runaway  horse  was 
not  far  off.  One  of  the  carters,  the  back  of  whose  wag 
gon  was  half-way  across  the  opening  of  the  street,  made 
desperate  efforts  to  make  his  beast  advance  and  clear  the 
way;  but  the  frightened  animal  only  backed  farther  up. 
A  moment  later  the  runaway  charged  down  past  the  tail 
of  the  lumbering  vehicle.  The  horse  himself  just  cleared 
the  projecting  timbers  of  the  cart,  but  the  cab  he  was 
furiously  dragging  caught  upon  them  while  going  at  full 
speed  and  was  shivered  to  pieces,  throwing  the  horse 
heavily  upon  the  stones,  so  that  he  slid  along  several 
feet  on  his  head  and  knees  with  the  fragments  of  the 
broken  shafts  and  the  wreck  of  the  harness  about  him. 
The  first  man  to  spring  from  the  crowd  and  seize  the 
beast's  head  was  Anastase.  He  did  not  see  that  the  same 
instant  a  large  private  carriage,  drawn  by  a  pair  of 
powerful  horses,  emerged  quickly  from  the  Vicolo  dei 
Soldati,  the  third  of  the  streets  which  meet  the  Via  di 
Tordinona  at  the  Orso.  The  driver,  who  owing  to  the 
darkness  had  not  seen  the  disaster  which  had  just  taken 
place,  did  his  best  to  stop  in  time ;  but  before  the  heavy 
equipage  could  be  brought  to  a  stand  Anastase  had  been 
thrown  to  the  ground,  between  the  hoofs  of  the  struggling 
cab-horse  and  the  feet  of  the  startled  pair  of  bays.  The 
crowd  closed  in  as  near  as  was  safe,  while  the  confusion 
and  the  shouts  of  the  people  and  the  carters  increased 
every  minute. 

The  coachman  of  the  private  carriage  threw  the  reins 


6  SANT'  ILARIO. 

to  the  footman  and  sprang  down  to  go  to  the  horses' 
heads. 

"  You  have  run  over  a  Zouave !  "  some  one  shouted  from 
the  crowd. 

"  Meno  male !  Thank  goodness  it  was  not  one  of  us !  " 
exclaimed  another  voice. 

"Where  is  he?  Get  him  out,  some  of  you!  "  cried  the 
coachman  as  he  seized  the  reins  close  to  the  bit. 

By  this  time  a  couple  of  stout  gendarmes  and  two  or 
three  soldiers  of  the  Antibes  legion  had  made  their  way 
to  the  front  and  were  dragging  away  the  fallen  cab-horse. 
A  tall,  thin,  elderly  gentleman,  of  a  somewhat  sour 
countenance,  descended  from  the  carriage  and  stooped 
over  the  injured  soldier. 

"It  is  only  a  Zouave,  Excellency,"  said  the  coachman, 
with  a  sort  of  sigh  of  relief. 

The  tall  gentleman  lifted  Gouache's  head  a  little  so 
that  the  light  from  the  carriage-lamp  fell  upon  his  face. 
He  was  quite  insensible,  and  there  was  blood  upon  his 
pale  forehead  and  white  cheeks.  One  of  the  gendarmes 
came  forward. 

"  We  will  take  care  of  him,  Signore, "  he  said,  touch 
ing  his  three-cornered  hat.  "But  I  must  beg  to  know 
your  revered  name,"  he  added,  in  the  stock  Italian  phrase. 
"  Capira  —  I  am  very  sorry  —  but  they  say  your  horses 


"Put  him  into  my  carriage,"  answered  the  elderly 
gentleman  shortly.  "I  am  the  Principe  Montevarchi." 

"  But,  Excellency  —  the  Signorina "  protested  the 

coachman.  The  prince  paid  no  attention  to  the  objection 
and  helped  the  gendarme  to  deposit  Anastase  in  the  in 
terior  of  the  vehicle.  Then  he  gave  the  man  a  silver 
scudo. 

"  Send  some  one  to  the  Serristori  barracks  to  say  that 
a  Zouave  has  been  hurt  and  is  at  my  house,"  he  said. 
Therewith  he  entered  the  carriage  and  ordered  the  coach 
man  to  drive  home. 

"In  heaven's  name,  what  has  happened,  papa?"  asked 
a  young  voice  in  the. darkness,  tremulous  with  excite 
ment. 

"My  dear  child,  there  has  been  an  accident  in  the 
street,  and  this  young  man  has  been  wounded,  or 
killed " 


SANT'  ILARIO.  7 

"  Killed !  A  dead  man.  in  the  carriage !  "  cried  the  young 
girl  in  some  terror,  and  shrinkng  away  into  the  corner. 

"You  should  really  control  your  nerves,  Faustina," 
replied  her  father  in  austere  tones.  "  If  the  young  man 
is  dead,  it  is  the  will  of  Heaven.  If  he  is  alive  we  shall 
soon  find  it  out.  Meanwhile  I  must  beg  you  to  be  calm 
—  to  be  calm,  do  you  understand?" 

Donna  Faustina  Monte varchi  made  no  answer  to  this 
parental  injunction,  but  withdrew  as  far  as  she  could 
into  the  corner  of  the  back  seat,  while  her  father  sup 
ported  the  inanimate  body  of  the  Zouave  as  the  carriage 
swung  over  the  uneven  pavement.  In  a  few  minutes  they 
rolled  beneath  a  deep  arch  and  stopped  at  the  foot  of  a 
broad  marble  staircase. 

"  Bring  him  upstairs  carefully,  and  send  for  a  sur 
geon,"  said  the  prince  to  the  men  who  came  forward. 
Then  he  offered  his  arm  to  his  daughter  to  ascend  the 
steps,  as  though  nothing  had  happened,  and  without 
bestowing  another  look  on  the  injured  soldier. 

Donna  Faustina  was  just  eighteen  years  old,  and  had 
only  quitted  the  convent  of  the  Sacro  Cuore  a  month 
earlier.  It  might  have  been  said  that  she  was  too  young 
to  be  beautiful,  for  she  evidently  belonged  to  that  class 
of  women  who  do  not  attain  their  full  development  until 
a  later  period.  Her  figure  was  almost  too  slender,  her 
face  almost  too  delicate  and  ethereal.  There  was  about 
her  a  girlish  look,  an  atmosphere  of  half-saintly  maiden 
hood,  which  was  not  so  much  the  expression  of  her  real 
nature  as  the  effect  produced  by  her  being  at  once  very 
thin  and  very  fresh.  There  was  indeed  nothing  partic 
ularly  angelic  about  her  warm  brown  eyes,  shaded  by 
unusually  long  black  lashes ;  and  little  wayward  locks  of 
chestnut  hair,  curling  from  beneath  the  small  round  hat 
of  the  period,  just  before  the  small  pink  ears,  softened 
as  with  a  breath  of  worldliness  the  grave  outlines  of  the 
serious  face.  A  keen  student  of  women  might  have  seen 
that  the  dim  religious  halo  of  convent  life  which  still 
clung  to  the  young  girl  would  soon  fade  and  give  way  to 
the  brilliancy  of  the  woman  of  the  world.  She  was  not 
tall,  though  of  fully  average  height,  and  although  the 
dress  of  that  time  was  ill-adapted  to  show  to  advantage 
either  the  figure  or  the  movements,  it  was  evident,  as  she 


8  SANT'  ILARIO. 

stepped  lightly  from  the  carriage,  that  she  had  a  full 
share  of  ease  and  grace.  She  possessed  that  unconscious 
certainty  in  motion  which  proceeds  naturally  from  the 
perfect  proportion  of  all  the  parts,  and  which  exercises 
a  far  greater  influence  over  men  than  a  faultless  profile 
or  a  dazzling  skin. 

Instead  of  taking  her  father's  arm,  Donna  Faustina 
turned  and  looked  at  the  face  of  the  wounded  Zouave, 
whom  three  men  had  carefully  taken  from  the  carriage 
and  were  preparing  to  carry  upstairs.  Poor  Gouache 
was  hardly  recognisable  for  the  smart  soldier  who  had 
crossed  the  bridge  of  Sant'  Angelo  half  an  hour  earlier. 
His  uniform  was  all  stained  with  mud,  there  was  blood 
upon  his  pale  face,  and  his  limbs  hung  down,  powerless 
and  limp.  But  as  the  young  girl  looked  at  him,  con 
sciousness  returned,  and  with  it  came  the  sense  of  acute 
suffering.  He  opened  his  eyes  suddenly,  as  men  often 
do  when  they  revive  after  being  stunned,  and  a  short 
groan  escaped  from  his  lips.  Then,  as  he  realised  that  he 
was  in  the  presence  of  a  lady,  he  made  an  effort  as  though 
to  release  himself  from  the  hands  of  those  who  carried 
him,  and  to  stand  upon  his  feet. 

"  Pardon  me,  Madame, "  he  began  to  say,  but  Faustina 
checked  him  by  a  gesture. 

Meanwhile  old  Montevarchi  had  carefully  scrutinised 
the  young  man's  face,  and  had  recognised  him,  for  they 
had  often  met  in  society. 

"Monsieur  Gouache!"  he  exclaimed  in  surprise.  At 
the  same  time  he  made  the  men  move  on  with  their 
burden. 

"You  know  him,  papa?"  whispered  Donna  Faustina 
as  they  followed  together.  "He  is  a  gentleman?  I  was 
right?  " 

"  Of  course,  of  course, "  answered  her  father.  "  But 
really,  Faustina,  had  you  nothing  better  to  do  than  to  go 
and  look  into  his  face?  Imagine,  if  he  had  known  you! 
Dear  me !  If  you  begin  like  this,  as  soon  as  you  are  out 
of  the  convent " 

Montevarchi  left  the  rest  of  the  sentence  to  his  daugh 
ter's  imagination,  merely  turning  up  his  eyes  a  little  as 
though  deprecating  the  just  vengeance  of  heaven  upon 
his  daughter's  misconduct. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  9 

"  Eeally,  papa "  protested  Faustina. 

"Yes  —  really,  my  daughter  —  I  am  much  suprised," 
returned  her  incensed  parent,  still  speaking  in  an  under 
tone  lest  the  injured  man  should  overhear  what  was  said. 

They  reached  the  head  of  the  stairs  and  the  men  car 
ried  Gouache  rapidly  away;  not  so  quickly,  however,  as 
to  prevent  Faustina  from  getting  another  glimpse  of  his 
face.  His  eyes  were  open  and  met  hers  with  an  expres 
sion  of  mingled  interest  and  gratitude  which  she  did  not 
forget.  Then  he  was  carried  away  and  she  did  not  see 
him  again. 

The  Montevarchi  household  was  conducted  upon  the 
patriarchal  principle,  once  general  in  Eome,  and  not  quite 
abandoned  even  now,  twenty  years  later  than  the  date  of 
Gouache's  accident.  The  palace  was  a  huge  square  build 
ing  facing  upon  two  streets,  in  front  and  behind,  and 
opening  inwards  upon  two  courtyards.  Upon  the  lower 
floor  were  stables,  coach-houses,  kitchens,  and  offices 
innumerable.  Above  these  there  was  built  a  half  story, 
called  a  mezzanino  —  in  French,  entresol,  containing  the 
quarters  of  the  unmarried  sons  of  the  house,  of  the  house 
hold  chaplain,  and  of  two  or  three  tutors  employed  in  the 
education  of  the  Montevarchi  grandchildren.  Next 
above,  came  the  "  piano  nobile,"  or  state  apartments, 
comprising  the  rooms  of  the  prince  and  princess,  the 
dining-room,  and  a  vast  suite  of  reception-rooms,  each  of 
which  opened  into  the  next  in  such  a  manner  that  only  the 
last  was  not  necessarily  a  passage.  In  the  huge  hall  was 
the  dais  and  canopy  with  the  family  arms  embroidered 
in  colours  once  gaudy  but  now  agreeably  faded  to  a  softer 
tone.  Above  this  floor  was  another,  occupied  by  the  mar 
ried  sons,  their  wives  and  children;  and  high  over  all, 
above  the  cornice  of  the  palace,  were  the  endless  servants' 
quarters  and  the  roomy  garrets.  At  a  rough  estimate 
the  establishment  comprised  over  a  hundred  persons,  all 
living  under  the  absolute  and  despotic  authority  of  the 
head  of  the  house,  Don  Lotario  Montevarchi,  Principe 
Montevarchi,  and  sole  possessor  of  forty  or  fifty  other 
titles.  From  his  will  and  upon  his  pleasure  depended 
every  act  of  every  member  of  his  household,  from  his 
eldest  son  and  heir,  the  Duca  di  Bellegra,  to  that  of 
Pietro  Paolo,  the  under-cook's  scullion's  boy.  There 


10  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

were  three  sons  and  four  daughters.  Two  of  the  sons 
were  married,  to  wit,  Don  Ascanio,  to  whom  his  father 
had  given  his  second  title,  and  Don  Onorato,  who  was 
allowed  to  call  himself  Principe  di  Cantalupo,  but  vho 
would  have  no  legal  claim  to  that  distinction  after  his 
father's  death.  Last  of  the  three  came  Don  Carlo,  a 
young  fellow  of  twenty  years,  but  not  yet  emancipated 
from  the  supervision  of  his  tutor.  Of  the  daughters,  the 
two  eldest,  Bianca  and  Laura,  were  married  and  no  longer 
lived  in  Rome,  the  one  having  been  matched  with  a  Nea 
politan  and  the  other  with  a  Florentine.  There  remained 
still  at  home,  therefore,  the  third,  Donna  Flavia,  and  the 
youngest  of  all  the  family,  Donna  Faustina.  Though 
Flavia  was  not  yet  two  and  twenty  years  of  age,  her  father 
and  mother  were  already  beginning  to  despair  of  marry 
ing  her,  and  dropped  frequent  hints  about  the  advisa 
bility  of  making  her  enter  religion,  as  they  called  it; 
that  is  to  say,  they  thought  she  had  better  take  the  veil 
and  retire  from  the  world. 

The  old  princess  Montevarchi  was  English  by  birth 
and  education,  but  thirty-three  years  of  life  in  Rome  had 
almost  obliterated  all  traces  of  her  nationality.  That 
all-pervading  influence,  which  so  soon  makes  Romans  of 
foreigners  who  marry  into  Roman  families,  had  done  its 
work  effectually.  The  Roman  nobility,  by  intermarriage 
with  the  principal  families  of  the  rest  of  Europe,  has 
lost  many  Italian  characteristics;  but  its  members  are 
more  essentially  Romans  than  the  full-blooded  Italians 
of  the  other  classes  who  dwell  side  by  side  with  the  aris 
tocracy  in  Rome. 

When  Lady  Gwendoline  Fontenoy  married  Don  Lota- 
rio  Montevarchi  in  the  year  1834,  she,  no  doubt,  believed 
that  her  children  would  grow  up  as  English  as  she  her 
self,  and  that  her  husband's  house  would  not  differ 
materially  from  an  establishment  of  the  same  kind  in 
England.  She  laughed  merrily  at  the  provisions  of  the 
marriage  contract,  which  even  went  so  far  as  to  stipulate 
that  she  was  to  have  at  least  two  dishes  of  meat  at  din 
ner,  and  an  equivalent  on  fast-days,  a  drive  every  day 
—  the  traditional  trottata  —  two  new  gowns  every  year, 
and  a  woman  to  wait  upon  her.  After  these  and  similar 
provisions  had  been  agreed  upon,  her  dowry,  which  was 


SANT'  ILARIO.  11 

a  large  one  for  those  days,  was  handed  over  to  the  keep 
ing  of  her  father-in-law  and  she  was  duly  married  to  Don 
Lotario,  wtto  at  once  assumed  the  title  of  Duca  di  Bel- 
legra.  The  wedding  journey  consisted  of  a  fortnight's 
retirement  in  the  Villa  Montevarchi  at  Frascati,  and  at 
the  end  of  that  time  the  young  couple  were  installed 
under  the  paternal  roof  in  Rome.  Before  she  had  been 
in  her  new  abode  a  month  the  young  Duchessa  realised 
the  utter  hopelessness  of  attempting  to  change  the  exist 
ing  system  of  patriarchal  government  under  which  she 
found  herself  living.  She  discovered,  in  the  first  place, 
that  she  would  never  have  five  scudi  of  her  own  in  her 
pocket,  and  that  if  she  needed  a  handkerchief  or  a  pair 
of  stockings  it  was  necessary  to  obtain  from  the  head  of 
the  house  not  only  the  permission  to  buy  such  neces 
saries,  but  the  money  with  which  to  pay  for  them. 
She  discovered,  furthermore,  that  if  she  wanted  a  cup 
of  coffee  or  some  bread  and  butter  out  of  hours,  those 
things  were  charged  to  her  daily  account  in  the  steward's 
office,  as  though  she  had  been  in  an  inn,  and  were  paid 
for  at  the  end  of  the  year  out  of  the  income  arising  from 
her  dowry.  Her  husband's  younger  brother,  who  had  no 
money  of  his  own,  could  not  even  get  a  lemonade  in  his 
father's  house  without  his  father's  consent. 

Moreover,  the  family  life  was  of  such  a  nature  as  almost 
to  preclude  all  privacy.  The  young  Duchessa  and  her 
husband  had  their  bedroom  in  the  upper  story,  but  Don 
Lotario's  request  that  his  wife  might  have  a  sitting-room 
of  her  own  was  looked  upon  as  an  attempt  at  a  domestic 
revolution,  and  the  privilege  was  only  obtained  at  last 
through  the  formidable  intervention  of  the  Duke  of 
Agincourt,  the  Duchessa' s  own  father.  All  the  family 
meals,  too,  were  eaten  together  in  the  solemn  old  dining- 
hall,  hung  with  tapestries  and  dingy  with  the  dust  of 
ages.  The  order  of  precedence  was  always  strictly 
observed,  and  though  the  cooking  was  of  a  strange  kind, 
no  plate  or  dish  was  ever  used  which  was  not  of  solid 
silver,  battered  indeed,  and  scratched,  and  cleaned  only 
after  Italian  ideas,  but  heavy  and  massive  withal.  The 
Duchessa  soon  learned  that  the  old  Roman  houses  all  used 
silver  plates  from  motives  of  economy,  for  the  simple 
reason  that  metal  did  not  break.  But  the  sensible  Eng- 


12  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

lish  woman  saw  also  that  although  the  most  rigid  econ 
omy  was  practised  in  many  things,  there  was  lavish 
expenditure  in  many  departments  of  the  establishment. 
There  were  magnificent  horses  in  the  stables,  gorgeously 
gilt  carriages  in  the  coach-houses,  scores  of  domestics  in 
bright  liveries  at  every  door.  The  pay  of  the  servants 
did  not,  indeed,  exceed  the  average  earnings  of  a  shoe 
black  in  London,  but  the  coats  they  wore  were  exceed 
ing  glorious  with  gold  lace. 

It  was  clear  from  the  first  that  nothing  was  expected 
of  Don  Lotario's  wife  but  to  live  peaceably  under  the 
patriarchal  rule,  making  no  observations  and  offering  no 
suggestions.  Her  husband  told  her  that  he  was  powerless 
to  introduce  any  changes,  and  added,  that  since  his  father 
and  all  his  ancestors  had  always  lived  in  the  same  way, 
that  way  was  quite  good  enough  for  him.  Indeed,  he 
rather  looked  forward  to  the  time  when  he  should  be 
master  of  the  house,  having  children  under  him  whom  he 
might  rule  as  absolutely  and  despotically  as  he  was 
ruled  himself. 

In  the  course  of  years  the  Duchessa  absorbed  the  tra 
ditions  of  her  new  home,  so  that  they  became  part  of  her, 
and  as  everything  went  on  unchanged  from  year  to  year 
she  acquired  unchanging  habits  which  corresponded  with 
her  surroundings.  Then,  when  at  last  the  old  prince  and 
princess  were  laid  side  by  side  in  the  vault  of  the  family 
chapel  and  she  was  princess  in  her  turn,  she  changed 
nothing,  but  let  everything  go  on  in  the  same  groove, 
educating  her  children  and  managing  them,  as  her  hus 
band  had  been  educated  and  as  she  herself  had  been 
managed  by  the  old  couple.  Her  husband  grew  more 
and  more  like  his  father,  punctilious,  rigid;  a  strict 
observant  in  religious  matters,  a  pedant  in  little  things, 
prejudiced  against  all  change ;  too  satisfied  to  desire  im 
provement,  too  scrupulously  conscientious  to  permit  any 
retrogression  from  established  rule,  a  model  of  the  immu 
tability  of  an  ancient  aristocracy,  a  living  paradigm  of 
what  always  had  been  and  a  stubborn  barrier  against  all 
that  might  be. 

Such  was  the  home  to  which  Donna  Faustina  Monte- 
varchi  returned  to  live  after  spending  eight  years  in  the 
convent  of  the  Sacro  Cuore.  During  that  time  she  had 


SANT'  ILARIO.  13 

acquired  the  French  language,  a  slight  knowledge  of 
music,  a  very  limited  acquaintance  with  the  history  of 
her  own  country,  a  ready  memory  for  prayers  and  lita 
nies —  and  her  manners.  Manners  among  the  Italians 
are  called  education.  What  we  mean  by  the  latter  word, 
namely,  the  learning  acquired,  is  called,  more  precisely, 
instruction.  An  educated  person  means  a  person  who 
has  acquired  the  art  of  politeness.  An  instructed  per 
son  means  some  one  who  has  learnt  rather  more  than 
the  average  of  what  is  generally  learnt  by  the  class  of 
people  to  whom  he  belongs.  Donna  Faustina  was  ex 
tremely  well  educated,  according  to  Koman  ideas,  but 
her  instruction  was  not,  and  was  not  intended  to  be,  any 
better  than  that  imparted  to  the  young  girls  with  whom 
she  was  to  associate  in  the  world. 

As  far  as  her  character  was  concerned,  she  herself 
knew  very  little  of  it,  and  would  probably  have  found 
herself  very  much  embarrassed  if  called  upon  to  explain 
what  character  meant.  She  was  new  and  the  world  was 
very  old.  The  nuns  had  told  her  that  she  must  never 
care  for  the  world,  which  was  a  very  sinful  place,  full 
of  thorns,  ditches,  pitfalls  and  sinners,  besides  the  devil 
and  his  angels.  Her  sister  Flavia,  on  the  contrary, 
assured  her  that  the  world  was  very  agreeable,  when 
mamma  happened  to  go  to  sleep  in  a  corner  during  a  ball ; 
that  all  men  were  deceivers,  but  that  when  a  man  danced 
well  it  made  no  difference  whether  he  were  a  deceiver  or 
not,  since  he  danced  with  his  legs  and  not  with  his  con 
science;  that  there  was  no  happiness  equal  to  a  good 
cotillon,  and  that  there  were  a  number  of  these  in  every 
season;  and,  finally,  that  provided  one  did  not  spoil  one's 
complexion  one  might  do  anything,  so  long  as  mamma 
was  not  looking. 

To  Donna  Faustina,  these  views,  held  by  the  nuns  on 
the  one  hand  and  by  Flavia  on  the  other,  seemed  very 
conflicting.  She  would  not,  indeed,  have  hesitated  in 
choosing,  even  if  she  had  been  permitted  any  choice ;  for 
it  was  clear  that,  since  she  had  seen  the  convent  side  of 
the  question,  it  would  be  very  interesting  to  see  the 
other.  But,  having  been  told  so  much  about  sinners, 
she  was  on  the  look-out  for  them,  and  looked  forward  to 
making  the  acquaintance  of  one  of  them  with  a  pardon- 


14  SANT'  ILARIO. 

able  excitement.  Doubtless  she  would  hate  a  sinner  if 
she  saw  one,  as  the  nuns  had  taught  her,  although  the 
sinner  of  her  imagination  was  not  a  very  repulsive  per 
sonage.  Flavia  probably  knew  a  great  many,  and  Flavia 
said  that  society  was  very  amusing.  Faustina  wished 
that  the  autumn  months  would  pass  a  little  more  quickly, 
so  that  the  carnival  season  might  begin. 

Prince  Montevarchi,  for  his  part,  intended  his  young 
est  daughter  to  be  a  model  of  prim  propriety.  He 
attributed  to  Flavia' s  frivolity  of  behaviour  the  difficulty 
he  experienced  in  rinding  her  a  husband,  and  he  had  no 
intention  of  exposing  himself  to  a  second  failure  in  the 
case  of  Faustina.  She  should  marry  in  her  first  season, 
and  if  she  chose  to  be  gay  after  that,  the  responsibility 
thereof  might  fall  upon  her  husband,  or  her  father-in- 
law,  or  upon  whomsoever  it  should  most  concern;  he 
himself  would  have  fulfilled  his  duty  so  soon  as  the 
nuptial  benediction  was  pronounced.  He  knew  the  for 
tune  and  reputation  of  every  marriageable  young  man  in 
society,  and  was  therefore  eminently  fitted  for  the  task 
he  undertook.  To  tell  the  truth,  Faustina  herself  ex 
pected  to  be  married  before  Easter,  for  it  was  eminently 
fitting  that  a  young  girl  should  lose  no  time  in  such 
matters.  But  she  meant  to  choose  a  man  after  her  own 
heart,  if  she  found  one;  at  all  events,  she  would  not 
submit  too  readily  to  the  paternal  choice  nor  appear  sat 
isfied  with  the  first  tolerable  suitor  who  should  be  pre 
sented  to  her. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  seemed  probable  that 
Donna  Faustina's  first  season,  which  had  begun  with 
the  unexpected  adventure  at  the  corner  of  the  old  Orso, 
would  not  come  to  a  close  without  some  passage  of  arms 
between  herself  and  her  father,  even  though  the  ultimate 
conclusion  should  lead  to  the  steps  of  the  altar. 

The  men  carried  the  wounded  Zouave  away  to  a  distant 
room,  and  Faustina  entered  the  main  apartments  by  the 
side  of  the  old  prince.  She  sighed  a  little  as  she  went. 

"  I  hope  the  poor  man  will  get  well !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"Do  not  disturb  your  mind  about  the  young  man," 
answered  her  father.  "He  will  be  attended  by  the 
proper  persons,  and  the  doctor  will  bleed  him  and  the 
will  of  Heaven  will  be  done.  It  is  not  the  duty  of  a 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  15 

well-conducted   young  woman  to  be  thinking   of   such 
things,  and  you  may  dismiss  the  subject  at  once." 

"Yes,  papa,"  said  Faustina  submissively.  But  in 
spite  of  the  dutiful  tone  of  voice  in  which  she  spoke,  the 
dim  light  of  the  tall  lamps  in  the  antechambers  showed 
a  strange  expression  of  mingled  amusement  and  contra 
riety  in  the  girl's  ethereal  face. 


CHAPTER  II. 

"You  know  Gouache?"  asked  old  Prince  Saracinesca, 
in  a  tone  which  implied  that  he  had  news  to  tell.  He 
looked  from  his  daughter-in-law  to  his  son  as  he  put  the 
question,  and  then  went  on  with  his  breakfast. 

"  Very  well, "  answered  Giovanni.    "  What  about  him?  " 

"  He  was  knocked  down  by  a  carriage  last  night.  The 
carriage  belonged  to  Montevarchi,  and  Gouache  is  at  his 
house,  in  danger  of  his  life." 

"  Poor  fellow !  "  exclaimed  Corona  in  ready  sympathy. 
"I  am  so  sorry !  I  am  very  fond  of  Gouache." 

Giovanni  Saracinesca,  known  to  the  world  since  his 
marriage  as  Prince  of  Sant'  Ilarioj  glanced  quickly  at 
his  wife,  so  quickly  that  neither  she  nor  the  old  gentle 
man  noticed  the  fact. 

The  three  persons  sat  at  their  midday  breakfast  in  the 
dining-room  of  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca.  After  much 
planning  and  many  discussions  the  young  couple  had 
determined  to  take  up  their  abode  with  Giovanni's  father. 
There  were  several  reasons  which  had  led  them  to  this 
decision,  but  the  two  chief  ones  were  that  they  were  both 
devotedly  attached  to  the  old  man;  and  secondly,  that 
such  a  proceeding  was  strictly  fitting  and  in  accordance 
with  the  customs  of  Romans.  It  was  true  that  Corona, 
while  her  old  husband,  the  Duca  d'Astrardente,  was 
alive,  had  grown  used  to  having  an  establishment  exclu 
sively  her  own,  and  both  the  Saracinesca  had  at  first 
feared  that  she  would  be  unwilling  to  live  in  her  father- 
in-law's  house.  Then,  too,  there  was  the  Astrardente 


16  SANT'  ILARIO. 

palace,  which  could  not  be  shut  up  and  allowed  to  go  to 
ruin;  but  this  matter  was  compromised  advantageously 
by  Corona's  letting  it  to  an  American  millionaire  who 
wished  to  spend  the  winter  in  Rome.  The  rent  paid  was 
large,  and  Corona  never  could  have  too  much  money  for 
her  improvements  out  at  Astrardente.  Old  Saracinesca 
wished  that  the  tenant  might  have  been  at  least  a  diplo 
matist,  and  cursed  the  American  by  his  gods,  but  Gio 
vanni  said  that  his  wife  had  shown  good  sense  in  getting 
as  much  as  she  could  for  the  palace. 

"  We  shall  not  need  it  till  Orsino  grows  up  —  unless 
you  marry  again,"  said  Sant'  Ilario  to  his  father,  with 
a  laugh. 

Now,  Orsino  was  Giovanni's  son  and  heir,  aged,  at  the 
time  of  this  tale,  six  months  and  a  few  days.  In  spite 
of  his  extreme  youth,  however,  Orsino  played  a  great  and 
important  part  in  the  doings  of  the  Saracinesca  house 
hold.  In  the  first  place,  he  was  the  heir,  and  the  old 
prince  had  been  found  sitting  by  his  cradle  with  an 
expression  never  seen  in  his  face  since  Giovanni  had  been 
a  baby.  Secondly,  Orsino  was  a  very  fine  child,  swarthy 
of  skin,  and  hard  as  a  tiger  cub,  yet  having  already  his 
mother's  eyes,  large,  coal-black  and  bright,  but  deep  and 
soft  withal.  Thirdly,  Orsino  had  a  will  of  his  own, 
admirably  seconded  by  an  enormous  lung  power.  Not 
that  he  cried,  when  he  wanted  anything.  His  baby  eyes 
had  not  yet  been  seen  to  shed  tears.  He  merely  shouted, 
loud  and  long,  and  thumped  the  sides  of  his  cradle  with 
his  little  clenched  fists,  or  struck  out  straight  at  anybody 
who  chanced  to  be  within  reach.  Corona  rejoiced  in  the 
child,  and  used  to  say  that  he  was  like  his  grandfather, 
his  father  and  his  mother  all  put  together.  The  old  prince 
thought  that  if  this  were  true  the  boy  would  do  very 
well ;  Corona  was  the  most  beautiful  dark  woman  of  her 
time;  he  himself  was  a  sturdy,  tough  old  man,  though 
his  hair  and  beard  were  white  as  snow,  and  Giovanni 
was  his  father's  ideal  of  what  a  man  of  his  race  should 
be.  The  arrival  of  the  baby  Orsino  had  been  an  addi 
tional  argument  in  favour  of  living  together,  for  the 
child's  grandfather  could  not  have  been  separated  from 
him  even  by  the  quarter  of  a  mile  which  lay  between  the 
two  palaces. 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  17 

And  so  it  came  to  pass  that  they  all  dwelt  under  the 
same  roof,  and  were  sitting  together  at  breakfast  on  the 
morning  of  the  24th  of  September,  when  the  old  prince 
told  them  of  the  accident  which  had  happened  to  Gouache. 

"How  did  you  hear  the  news?"  asked  Giovanni. 

"Montevarchi  told  me  this  morning.  He  was  very 
much  disturbed  at  the  idea  of  having  an  interesting 
young  man  in  his  house,  with  Flavia  and  Faustina  at 
home."  Old  Saracinesca  smiled  grimly. 

"Why  should  that  trouble  him?"  inquired  Corona. 

"He  has  the  ancient  ideas,"  replied  her  father-in-law. 

"  After  all  —  Flavia " 

"Yes.     Flavia,  after  all " 

"I  shall  be  curious  to  see  how  the  other  one  turns 
out,"  remarked  Giovanni.  "There  seems  to  be  a  certain 
unanimity  in  our  opinion  of  Flavia.  However,  I  dare 
say  it  is  mere  gossip,  and  Casa  Montevarchi  is  not  a  gay 
place  for  a  girl  of  her  age." 

"  Not  gay?  How  do  you  know?  "  asked  the  old  prince. 
"Does  the  girl  want  Carnival  to  last  till  All  Souls'? 
Did  you  ever  dine  there,  Giovannino?  " 

"  No  —  nor  any  one  else  who  is  not  a  member  of  the 
most  Excellent  Casa  Montevarchi." 

"  Then  how  do  you  know  whether  it  is  gay  or  not?  " 

"You  should  hear  Ascanio  Bellegra  describe  their 
life,"  retorted  Giovanni. 

"And  I  suppose  you  describe  your  life  to  him,  in 
exchange?"  Prince  Saracinesca  was  beginning  to  lose 
his  temper,  as  he  invariably  did  whenever  he  could 
induce  his  son  to  argue  any  question  with  him.  "I 
suppose  you  deplore  each  other's  miserable  condition. 
I  tell  you  what  I  think,  Giovanni.  You  had  better  go 
and  live  in  Corona's  house  if  you  are  not  happy  here." 

"It  is  let,"  replied  Giovanni  with  imperturbable  calm, 
but  his  wife  bit  her  lip  to  control  her  rising  laughter. 

"  You  might  travel, "  growled  the  old  gentleman. 

"But  I  am  very  happy  here." 

"  Then  what  do  you  mean  by  talking  like  that  about 
Casa  Montevarchi?" 

"I  fail  to  see  the  connection  between  the  two  ideas," 
observed  Giovanni. 

"You  live  in  precisely  the  same  circumstances  as 

c 


18  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Ascanio  Bellegra.  I  think  the  connection  is  clear  enough. 
If  his  life  is  sad,  so  is  yours." 

"  For  downright  good  logic  commend  me  to  my  beloved 
father ! "  cried  Giovanni,  breaking  into  a  laugh  at  last. 

"  A  laughing-stock  for  my  children !  I  have  come  to 
this!"  exclaimed  his  father  gruffly.  But  his  features 
relaxed  into  a  good-humoured  smile,  that  was  pleasant  to 
see  upon  his  strong  dark  face. 

"But,  really,  I  am  very  sorry  to  hear  this  of  poor 
Gouache,"  said  Corona  at  last,  returning  to  the  original 
subject  of  their  conversation.  "I  hope  it  is  nothing 
really  dangerous." 

"  It  is  always  dangerous  to  be  run  over  by  a  carriage, " 
answered  Giovanni.  "I  will  go  and  see  him,  if  they 
will  let  me  in." 

At  this  juncture  Orsino  was  brought  in  by  his  nurse, 
a  splendid  creature  from  Saracinesca,  with  bright  blue 
eyes  and  hair  as  fair  as  any  Goth's,  a  contrast  to  the 
swarthy  child  she  carried  in  her  arms.  Immediately  the 
daily  ovation  began,  and  each  of  the  three  persons  began 
to  worship  the  baby  -in  an  especial  way.  There  was  no 
more  conversation,  after  that,  for  some  time.  The 
youngest  of  the  Saracinesca  absorbed  the  attention  of 
the  family.  Whether  he  clenched  his  little  fists,  or 
opened  his  small  fat  fingers,  whether  he  laughed  and 
crowed  at  his  grandfather's  attempts  to  amuse  him,  or 
struck  his  nurse's  rosy  cheeks  with  his  chubby  hands, 
the  result  was  always  applause  and  merriment  from  those 
who  looked  on.  The  scene  recalled  Joseph's  dream,  in 
which  the  sheaves  of  his  brethren  bowed  down  to  his 
sheaf. 

After  a  while,  however,  Orsino  grew  sleepy  and  had 
to  be  taken  away.  Then  the  little  party  broke  up  and 
separated.  The  old  prince  went  to  his  rooms  to  read  and 
doze  for  an  hour.  Corona  was  called  away  to  see  one  of 
the  numberless  dressmakers  whose  shadows  darken  the 
beginning  of  a  season  in  town,  and  Giovanni  took  his  hat 
and  went  out. 

In  those  days  young  men  of  society  had  very  little  to 
do.  The  other  day  a  German  diplomatist  was  heard  to 
say  that  Italian  gentlemen  seemed  to  do  nothing  but 
smoke,  spit,  and  criticise.  Twenty  years  ago  their  man- 


SANT*   ILARIO.  19 

tiers  might  have  been  described  less  coarsely,  but  there 
was  even  more  truth  in  the  gist  of  the  saying.  Not  only 
they  did  nothing.  There  was  nothing  for  them  to  do. 
They  floated  about  in  a  peaceful  millpool,  whose  placid 
surface  reflected  nothing  but  their  own  idle  selves,  little 
guessing  that  the  dam  whereby  their  mimic  sea  was  con 
fined,  would  shortly  break  with  a  thundering  crash  and 
empty  them  all  into  the  stream  of  real  life  that  flowed 
below.  For  the  few  who  disliked  idleness  there  was  no 
occupation  but  literature,  and  literature,  to  the  Roman, 
mind  of  1867,  and  in  the  Roman  meaning  of  the  word, 
was  scholarship.  The  introduction  to  a  literary  career 
was  supposed  to  be  obtained  only  by  a  profound  study 
of  the  classics,  with  a  view  to  avoiding  everything  clas 
sical,  both  in  language  and  ideas,  except  Cicero,  the 
apostle  of  the  ancient  Roman  Philistines;  and  the  ten 
dency  to  clothe  stale  truisms  and  feeble  sentiments  in 
high-sounding  language  is  still  found  in  Italian  prose  and 
is  indirectly  traceable  to  the  same  source.  As  for  the 
literature  of  the  country  since  the  Latins,  it  consisted, 
and  still  consists,  in  the  works  of  the  four  poets,  Dante, 
Tasso,  Ariosto,  and  Petrarch.  Leopardi  is  more  read 
now  than  then,  but  is  too  unhealthily  melancholy  to 
be  read  long  by  any  one.  There  used  to  be  Roman 
princes  who  spent  years  in  committing  to  memory  the 
verses  of  those  four  poets,  just  as  the  young  Brahman  of 
to-day  learns  to  recite  the  Rig  Veda.  That  was  called 
the  pursuit  of  literature. 

The  Saracinesca  were  thought  very  original  and  differ 
ent  from  other  men,  because  they  gave  some  attention  to 
their  estates.  It  seemed  very  like  business  to  try  and 
improve  the  possessions  one  had  inherited  or  acquired 
by  marriage,  and  business  was  degradation.  Neverthe 
less,  the  Saracinesca  were  strong  enough  to  laugh  at 
other  people's  scruples,  and  did  what  seemed  best  in 
their  own  eyes  without  troubling  themselves  to  ask  what 
the  world  thought.  But  the  care  of  such  matters  was 
not  enough  to  occupy  Giovanni  all  day.  He  had  much 
time  on  his  hands,  for  he  was  an  active  man,  who  slept 
little  and  rarely  needed  rest.  Formerly  he  had  been 
used  to  disappear  from  Rome  periodically,  making  long 
journeys,  generally  ending  in  shooting  expeditions  in 


20  SANT'  ILARIO. 

some  half-explored  country.  That  was  in  the  days 
before  his  marriage,  and  his  wanderings  had  assuredly 
done  him  no  harm.  He  had  seen  much  of  the  world  not 
usually  seen  by  men  of  his  class  and  prejudices,  and  the 
acquaintance  he  had  thus  got  with  things  and  people 
was  a  source  of  great  satisfaction  to  him.  But  the  time 
had  come  to  give  up  all  this.  He  was  now  not  only 
married  and  settled  in  his  own  home,  but  moreover  he 
loved  his  wife  with  his  whole  heart,  and  these  facts  were 
serious  obstacles  against  roughing  it  in  Norway,  Canada, 
or  Transylvania.  To  travel  with  Corona  and  little  Orsino 
seemed  a  very  different  matter  from  travelling  with 
Corona  alone.  Then  there  was  his  father's  growing 
affection  for  the  child,  which  had  to  be  taken  into 
account  in  all  things.  The  four  had  become  inseparable, 
old  Saracinesca,  Giovanni,  Corona,  and  the  baby. 

Now  Giovanni  did  not  regret  his  old  liberty.  He 
knew  that  he  was  far  happier  than  he  had  ever  been  in 
his  life  before.  But  there  were  days  when  the  time 
hung  heavily  on  his  hands  and  his  restless  nature  craved 
some  kind  of  action  which  should  bring  with  it  a  gener 
ous  excitement.  This  was  precisely  what  he  could  not 
find  during  the  months  spent  in  Eome,  and  so  it  fell  out 
that  he  did  very  much  what  most  young  men  of  his  birth 
found  quite  sufficient  as  an  employment ;  he  spent  a  deal 
of  time  in  strolling  where  others  strolled,  in  lounging  at 
the  club,  and  in  making  visits  which  filled  the  hours 
between  sunset  and  dinner.  To  him  this  life  was  new, 
and  not  altogether  tasteful ;  but  his  friends  did  not  fail 
to  say  that  Giovanni  had  been  civilised  by  his  marriage 
with  the  Astrardente,  and  was  much  less  reserved  than 
he  had  formerly  been. 

When  Corona  went  to  see  the  dressmaker,  Giovanni 
very  naturally  took  his  hat  and  went  out  of  the  house. 
The  September  day  was  warm  and  bright,  and  in  such 
weather  it  was  a  satisfaction  merely  to  pace  the  old 
Roman  streets  in  the  autumn  sun.  It  was  too  early  to 
meet  any  of  his  acquaintance,  and  too  soon  in  the  season 
for  any  regular  visiting.  He  did  not  know  what  to  do, 
but  allowed  himself  to  enjoy  the  sunshine  and  the  sweet 
air.  Presently,  the  sight  of  a  couple  of  Zouaves,  talking 
together  at  the  corner  of  a  street,  recalled  to  his  mind 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  21 

the  accident  which,  had  happened  to  Gouache.  It  would 
be  kind  to  go  and  see  the  poor  fellow,  or,  at  least,  to  ask 
after  him.  He  had  known  him  for  some  time  and  had 
gradually  learned  to  like  him,  as  most  people  did  who 
met  the  gifted  artist  day  after  day  throughout  the  gaiety 
of  the  winter. 

At  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi  Giovanni  learned  that  the 
princess  had  just  finished  breakfast.  He  could  hardly 
ask  for  Gouache  without  making  a  short  visit  in  the 
drawing-room,  and  he  accordingly  submitted,  regretting 
after  all  that  he  had  come.  The  old  princess  bored  him, 
he  did  not  know  Faustina,  who  was  just  out  of  the  con 
vent,  and  Flavia,  who  amused  many  people,  did  not 
amuse  him  in  the  least.  He  inwardly  rejoiced  that  he 
was  married,  and  that  his  visit  could  not  be  interpreted 
as  a  preliminary  step  towards  asking  for  Flavia's  hand. 

The  princess  looked  up  with  an  expression  of  inquiry 
in  her  prominent  blue  eyes,  as  Sant'  Ilario  entered.  She 
was  stout,  florid,  and  not  well  dressed.  Her  yellow  hair, 
already  half  gray,  for  she  was  more  than  fifty  years  old, 
was  of  the  unruly  kind,  and  had  never  looked  neat  even 
in  her  best  days.  Her  bright,  clear  complexion  saved 
her,  however,  as  it  saves  hundreds  of  middle-aged  Eng 
lishwomen,  from  that  look  of  peculiar  untidiness  which 
belongs  to  dark-skinned  persons  who  take  no  trouble 
about  their  appearance  or  personal  adornment.  In  spite 
of  thirty-three  years  of  residence  in  Rome,  she  spoke 
Italian  with  a  foreign  accent,  though  otherwise  correctly 
enough.  But  she  was  nevertheless  a  great  lady,  and  no 
one  would  have  thought  of  doubting  the  fact.  Fat, 
awkwardly  dressed,  of  no  imposing  stature,  with  unman 
ageable  hair  and  prominent  teeth,  she  was  not  a  person 
to  be  laughed  at.  She  had  what  many  a  beautiful  woman 
lacks  and  envies  —  natural  dignity  of  character  and  man 
ner,  combined  with  a  self-possession  which  is  not  always 
found  in  exalted  personages.  That  repose  of  manner 
which  is  commonly  believed  to  be  the  heirloom  of  noble 
birth  is  seen  quite  as  often  in  the  low-born  adventurer, 
who  regards  it  as  part  of  his  stock-in-trade;  and  there 
are  many  women,  and  men  too,  whose  position  might  be 
expected  to  place  them  beyond  the  reach  of  what  we  call 
shyness,  but  who  nevertheless  suffer  daily  agonies  of 


22  SANT'  ILARIO. 

social  timidity  and  would  rather  face  alone  a  charge  of 
cavalry  than  make  a  new  acquaintance.  The  Princess 
Montevarchi  was  made  of  braver  stuff,  however,  and  if 
her  daughters  had  not  inherited  all  her  unaffected  dignity 
they  had  at  least  received  their  fair  share  of  self-posses 
sion.  When  Sant'  Ilario  entered,  these  two  young  ladies, 
Donna  Flavia  and  Donna  Faustina,  were  seated  one  on 
each  side  of  their  mother.  The  princess  extended  her 
hand,  the  two  daughters  held  theirs  demurely  crossed 
upon  their  knees.  Faustina  looked  at  the  carpet,  as  she 
had  been  taught  to  do  in  the  convent.  Flavia  looked  up 
boldly  at  Giovanni,  knowing  by  experience  that  her 
mother  could  not  see  her  while  greeting  the  visitor. 
Sant'  Ilario  muttered  some  sort  of  civil  inquiry,  bowed 
to  the  two  young  ladies  and  sat  down. 

"  How  is  Monsieur  Gouache?  "  he  asked,  going  straight 
to  the  point.  He  had  seen  the  look  of  surprise  on  the 
princess's  face  as  he  entered,  and  thought  it  best  to 
explain  himself  at  once. 

"  Ah,  you  have  heard?  Poor  man !  He  is  badly  hurt, 
I  fear.  Would  you  like  to  see  him?  " 

"Presently,  if  I  may,"  answered  Giovanni.  "We  are 
all  fond  of  Gouache.  How  did  the  accident  happen?" 

"Faustina  ran  over  him,"  said  Flavia,  fixing  her  dark 
eyes  on  Giovanni  and  allowing  her  pretty  face  to  assume 
an  expression  of  sympathy  —  for  the  sufferer.  "Faus 
tina  and  papa,"  she  added. 

"  Flavia !  How  can  you  say  such  things ! "  exclaimed 
the  princess,  who  spent  a  great  part  of  her  life  in  repress 
ing  her  daughter's  manner  of  speech. 

"Well,  mamma  —  it  was  the  carriage  of  course.  But 
papa  and  Faustina  were  in  it.  It  is  the  same  thing." 

Giovanni  looked  at  Faustina,  but  her  thin  fresh  face 
expressed  nothing,  nor  did  she  show  any  intention  of 
commenting  on  her  sister's  explanation.  It  was  the  first 
time  he  had  seen  her  near  enough  to  notice  her,  and  his 
attention  was  arrested  by  something  in  her  looks  which 
surprised  and  interested  him.  It  was  something  almost 
impossible  to  describe,  and  yet  so  really  present  that  it 
struck  Sant'  Ilario  at  once,  and  found  a  place  in  his 
memory.  In  the  superstitions  of  the  far  north,  as  in  the 
half  material  spiritualism  of  Polynesia,  that  look  has  a 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  23 

meaning  and  an  interpretation.  With  us,  the  interpre 
tation  is  lost,  but  the  instinctive  persuasion  that  the 
thing  itself  is  not  wholly  meaningless  remains  ineradi 
cable.  We  say,  with  a  smile  at  our  own  credulity,  "  That 
man  looks  as  though  he  had  a  story, "  or,  "  That  woman 
looks  as  though  something  odd  might  happen  to  her." 
It  is  an  expression  in  the  eyes,  a  delicate  shade  in  the 
features,  which  speak  of  many  things  which  we  do  not 
understand;  things  which,  if  they  exist  at  all,  we  feel 
must  be  inevitable,  fatal,  and  beyond  human  control. 
Giovanni  looked  and  was  surprised,  but  Faustina  said 
nothing. 

"It  was  very  good  of  the  prince  to  bring  him  here," 
remarked  Sant'  Ilario. 

"  It  was  very  unlike  papa, "  exclaimed  Flavia,  before 
her  mother  could  answer.  "But  very  kind,  of  course,  as 
you  say,"  she  added,  with  a  little  smile.  Flavia  had  a 
habit  of  making  rather  startling  remarks,  and  of  then 
adding  something  in  explanation  or  comment,  before  her 
hearers  had  recovered  breath.  The  addition  did  not 
always  mend  matters  very  much. 

"Do  not  interrupt  me,  Flavia,"  said  her  mother, 
severely. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  were  you  speaking,  mamma? " 
asked  the  young  girl,  innocently. 

Giovanni  was  not  amused  by  Flavia's  manners,  and 
waited  calmly  for  the  princess  to  speak. 

"Indeed,"  said  she,  "there  was  nothing  else  to  be 
done.  As  we  had  run  over  the  poor  man " 

"  The  carriage "  suggested  Flavia.     But  her  mother 

took  no  notice  of  her. 

"  The  least  we  could  do,  of  course,  was  to  bring  him 
here.  My  husband  would  not  have  allowed  him  to  be 
taken  to  the  hospital." 

Flavia  again  fixed  her  eyes  on  Giovanni  with  a  look  of 
sympathy,  which,  however,  did  not  convey  any  very 
profound  belief  in  her  father's  charitable  intentions. 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  Giovanni.  "And  how  has 
he  been  since  you  brought  him  here?  Is  he  in  any 
danger?" 

"  You  shall  see  him  at  once, "  answered  the  princess, 
who  rose  and  rang  the  bell,  and  then,  as  the  servant's 


24  SANT'  ILARIO. 

footsteps  were  heard  outside,  crossed  the  room  to  meet 
him  at  the  door. 

"Mamma  likes  to  run  about,"  said  Flavia,  sweetly,  in 
explanation.  Giovanni  had  risen  and  made  as  though 
he  would  have  been  of  some  assistance. 

The  action  was  characteristic  of  the  Princess  Monte- 
varchi.  An  Italian  woman  would  neither  have  rung  the 
bell  herself,  nor  have  committed  such  an  imprudence  as 
to  turn  her  back  upon  her  two  daughters  when  there  was 
a  man  in  the  room.  But  she  was  English,  and  a  whole 
lifetime  spent  among  Italians  could  not  extinguish  her 
activity;  so  she  went  to  the  'door  herself.  Faustina's 
deep  eyes  followed  her  mother  as  though  she  were  inter 
ested  to  know  the  news  of  Gouache. 

"I  hope  he  is  better,"  she  said,  quietly. 

" Of  course, "  echoed  Flavia.  "So  do  I.  But  mamma 
amuses  me  so  much!  She  is  always  in  a  hurry." 

Faustina  made  no  answer,  but  she  looked  at  Sant' 
Ilario,  as  though  she  wondered  what  he  thought  of  her 
sister.  He  returned  her  gaze,  trying  to  explain  to  him 
self  the  strange  attraction  of  her  expression,  watching 
her  critically  as  he  would  have  watched  any  new  person 
or  sight.  She  did  not  blush  nor  avoid  his  bold  eyes,  as 
he  would  have  expected  had  he  realised  that  he  was 
staring  at  her. 

A  few  minutes  later  Giovanni  found  himself  in  a  nar 
row,  high  room,  lighted  by  one  window,  which  showed 
the  enormous  thickness  of  the  walls  in  the  deep  embra 
sure.  The  vaulted  ceiling  was  painted  in  fresco  with  a 
representation  of  Apollo  in  the  act  of  drawing  his  bow, 
arrayed  for  the  time  being  in  his  quiver,  while  his  other 
garments,  of  yellow  and  blue,  floated  everywhere  save 
over  his  body.  The  floor  of  the  room  was  of  red  bricks, 
which  had  once  been  waxed,  and  the  furniture  was  scanty, 
massive  and  very  old.  Anastase  Gouache  lay  in  one 
corner  in  a  queer-looking  bed  covered  with  a  yellow 
damask  quilt  the  worse  for  a  century  or  two  of  wear, 
upon  which  faded  embroideries  showed  the  Montevarchi 
arms  surmounted  by  a  cardinal's  hat.  Upon  a  chair 
beside  the  patient  lay  the  little  heap  of  small  belongings 
he  had  carried  in  his  pocket  when  hurt,  his  watch  and 
purse,  his  cigarettes,  his  handkerchief  and  a  few  other 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  25 

trifles,  among  which,  half  concealed  by  the  rest,  was  the 
gold  pin  he  had  picked  up  by  the  bridge  on  the  previous 
evening.  There  was  a  mingled  smell  of  dampness  and 
of  stale  tobacco  in  the  comfortless  room,  for  the  windows 
were  closely  shut,  in  spite  of  the  bright  sunshine  that 
flooded  the  opposite  side  of  the  street. 

Gouache  lay  on  his  back,  his  head  tied  up  in  a  bandage 
and  supported  by  a  white  pillow,  which  somehow  con 
veyed  the  impression  of  one  of  those  marble  cushions 
upon  which  in  old-fashioned  monuments  the  effigies  of 
the  dead  are  made  to  lean  in  eternal  prayer,  if  not  in 
eternal  ease.  He  moved  impatiently  as  the  door  opened, 
and  then  recognising  Giovanni,  he  hailed  him  in  a  voice 
much  more  lively  and  sonorous  than  might  have  been 
expected. 

"  You,  prince ! "  he  cried,  in  evident  delight.  "  What 
saint  has  brought  you?" 

"  I  heard  of  your  accident,  and  so  I  came  to  see  if  I 
could  do  anything  for  you.  How  are  you?  " 

"As  you  see,"  replied  Gouache.  "In  a  hospitable 
tomb,  with  my  head  tied  up  like  an  imperfectly-resur 
rected  Lazarus.  For  the  rest  there  is  nothing  the  matter 
with  me,  except  that  they  have  taken  away  my  clothes, 
which  is  something  of  an  obstacle  to  my  leaving  the 
house  at  once.  I  feel  as  if  I  had  been  in  a  revolution 
and  had  found  myself  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  barricade 
—  nothing  worse  than  that. " 

"You  are  in  good  spirits,  at  all  events.  But  are  you 
not  seriously  hurt?  " 

"Oh,  nothing  —  a  broken  collar-bone  somewhere,  I 
believe,  and  some  part  of  my  head  gone  —  I  am  not 
quite  sure  which,  and  a  bad  headache,  and  nothing  to 
eat,  and  a  general  sensation  as  though  somebody  had 
made  an  ineffectual  effort  to  turn  me  into  a  sausage." 

"What  does  the  doctor  say?" 

"Nothing.  He  is  a  man  of  action.  He  bled  me  be 
cause  I  had  not  the  strength  to  strangle  him,  and  poured 
decoctions  of  boiled  grass  down  my  throat  because  I 
could  not  speak.  He  has  fantastic  ideas  about  the  human 
body." 

"But  you  will  have  to  stay  here  several  days,"  said 
Giovanni,  considerably  amused  by  Gouache's  view  of  his 
own  case. 


26  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"  Several  days !  Not  even  several  hours,  if  I  can  help 
it." 

"  Things  do  not  go  so  quickly  in  Rome.  You  must  be 
patient." 

"In  order  to  starve,  when  there  is  food  as  near  as  the 
Corso?"  inquired  the  artist.  "To  be  butchered  by  a 
Eoman  phlebotomist,  and  drenched  with  infusions  of  hay 
by  the  Principessa  Montevarchi,  when  I  might  be  devis 
ing  means  of  being  presented  to  her  daughter?  What  do 
you  take  me  for?  I  suppose  the  young  lady  with  the 
divine  eyes  is  her  daughter,  is  she  not?" 

"You  mean  Donna  Faustina,  I  suppose.  Yes.  She 
is  the  youngest,  just  out  of  the  Sacro  Cuore.  She  was  in 
the  drawing-room  when  I  called  just  now.  How  did  you 
see  her?  " 

"  Last  night,  as  they  brought  me  upstairs,  I  was  lucky 
enough  to  wake  up  just  as  she  was  looking  at  me.  What 
eyes !  I  can  think  of  nothing  else.  Seriously,  can  you 
not  help  me  to  get  out  of  here?  " 

"  So  that  you  may  fall  in  love  with  Donna  Faustina 
as  soon  as  possible,  I  suppose,"  answered  Giovanni  with 
a  laugh.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  there  is  but  one  thing 
to  do,  if  you  are  really  strong  enough.  Send  for  your 
clothes,  get  up,  go  into  the  drawing-room  and  thank  the 
princess  for  her  hospitality." 

"  That  is  easily  said.  Nothing  is  done  in  this  house 
without  the  written  permission  of  the  old  prince,  unless 
I  am  much  mistaken.  Besides,  there  is  no  bell.  I 
might  as  well  be  under  arrest  in  the  giiard-room  of  the 
barracks.  Presently  the  doctor  will  come  and  bleed  me 
again  and  the  princess  will  send  me  some  more  boiled 
grass.  I  am  not  very  fat,  as  it  is,  but  another  day  of 
this  diet  will  make  me  diaphanous  —  I  shall  cast  no 
shadow.  A  nice  thing,  to  be  caught  without  a  shadow 
on  parade ! " 

"I  will  see  what  I  can  do,"  said  Giovanni,  rising. 
"  Probably,  the  best  thing  would  be  to  send  your  military 
surgeon.  He  will  not  be  so  tender  as  the  other  leech, 
but  he  will  get  you  away  at  once.  My  wife  wished  me 
to  say  that  she  sympathised,  and  hoped  you  might  soon 
be  well." 

"My  homage  and  best  thanks  to  the  princess,"  an- 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  27 

swered  Gouache,  with  a  slight  change  of  tone,  presum 
ably  to  be  referred  to  his  sense  of  courtesy  in  speaking 
of  the  absent  lady. 

So  Giovanni  went  away,  promising  to  send  the  surgeon 
at  once.  The  latter  soon  arrived,  saw  Gouache,  and  was 
easily  persuaded  to  order  him  home  without  further 
delay.  The  artist-soldier  would  not  leave  the  house 
without  thanking  his  hostess.  His  uniform  had  been 
cleansed  from  the  stains  it  had  got  in  the  accident,  and 
his  left  arm  was  in  a  sling.  The  wound  on  his  head  was 
more  of  a  bruise  than  a  cut,  and  was  concealed  by  his 
thick  black  hair.  Considering  the  circumstances  he  pre 
sented  a  very  good  appearance.  The  princess  received 
him  in  the  drawing-room,  and  Flavia  and  Faustina  were 
with  her,  but  all  three  were  now  dressed  to  go  out,  so 
that  the  interview  was  necessarily  a  short  one. 

Gouache  made  a  little  speech  of  thanks  and  tried  to 
forget  the  decoction  of  mallows  he  had  swallowed,  fear 
ing  lest  the  recollection  should  impart  a  tone  of  insin 
cerity  to  his  expression  of  gratitude.  He  succeeded  very 
well,  and  afterwards  attributed  the  fact  to  Donna  Faus 
tina's  brown  eyes,  which  were  not  cast  down  as  they  had 
been  when  Sant'  Ilario  had  called,  but  appeared  on  the 
contrary  to  contemplate  the  new  visitor  with  singular 
interest. 

"  I  am  sure  my  husband  will  not  approve  of  your  going 
so  soon,"  said  the  princess  in  somewhat  anxious  tones. 
It  was  almost  the  first  time  she  had  ever  known  any  step 
of  importance  to  be  taken  in  her  house  without  her  hus 
band's  express  authority. 

"Madame,"  answered  Gouache,  glancing  from  Donna 
Faustina  to  his  hostess,  "  I  am  in  despair  at  having  thus 
unwillingly  trespassed  upon  your  hospitality,  although 
I  need,  not  tell  you  that  I  would  gladly  prolong  so 
charming  an  experience,  provided  I  were  not  confined  to 
solitude  in  a  distant  chamber.  However,  since  our 
regimental  surgeon  pronounces  me  fit  to  go  home,  I  have 
no  choice  but  to  obey  orders.  Believe  me,  Madame,  I  am 
deeply  grateful  to  yourself  as  well  as  to  the  Principe  Mon- 
tevarchi  for  your  manifold  kindnesses,  and  shall  cherish 
a  remembrance  of  your  goodness  so  long  as  I  live." 

With  these  words  Gouache  bowed  as  though  he  would 


28  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

be  gone  and  stood  waiting  for  the  princess's  last  word. 
But  before  her  mother  could  speak,  Faustina's  voice  was 
heard. 

"  I  cannot  tell  you  how  dreadfully  we  feel  —  papa  and 
I  —  at  having  been  the  cause  of  such  a  horrible  accident ! 
Is  there  nothing  we  can  do  to  make  you  forget  it?" 

The  princess  stared  at  her  daughter  in  the  utmost 
astonishment  at  her  forwardness.  She  would  not  have 
been  surprised  if  Flavia  had  been  guilty  of  such  impru 
dence,  but  that  Faustina  should  thus  boldly  address  a 
young  man  who  had  not  spoken  to  her,  was  such  a  shock 
to  her  belief  in  the  girl's  manners  that  she  did  not  recover 
for  several  seconds.  Anastase  appreciated  the  situation, 
for  as^  he  answered,  he  looked  steadily  at  the  mother, 
although  his  words  were  plainly  addressed  to  the  brown- 
eyed  beauty. 

"Mademoiselle  is  too  kind.  She  exaggerates.  And 
yet,  since  she  has  put  the  question,  I  will  say  that  I 
should  forget  my  broken  bones  very  soon  if  I  might  be 
permitted  to  paint  Mademoiselle's  portrait.  I  am  a 
painter,"  he  added,  in  modest  explanation. 

"Yes,"  said  the  princess,  "I  know.  But,  really  — 
this  is  a  matter  which  would  require  great  consideration 
—  and  my  husband's  consent  —  and,  for  the  present " 

She  paused  significantly,  intending  to  convey  a  polite 
refusal,  but  Gouache  completed  the  sentence. 

"  For  the  present,  until  my  bones  are  mended,  we  will 
not  speak  of  it.  When  I  am  well  again  I  will  do  myself 
the  honour  of  asking  the  prince's  consent  myself." 

Flavia  leaned  towards  her  mother  and  whispered  into 
her  ear.  The  words  were  quite  audible,  and  the  girl's 
dark  eyes  turned  to  Gouache  with  a  wicked  laugh  in  them 
while  she  was  speaking. 

"  Oh,  mamma,  if  you  tell  papa  it  is  for  nothing-he  will 
be  quite  delighted !  " 

Gouache's  lip  trembled  as  he  suppressed  a  smile,  and 
the  elderly  princess's  florid  cheeks  flushed  with  annoy 
ance. 

"For  the  present,"  she  said,  holding  out  her  hand 
rather  coldly,  "we  will  not  speak  of  it.  Pray  let  us 
know  of  your  speedy  recovery,  Monsieur  Gouache." 

As  the  artist  took  his  leave  he  glanced  once  more  at 


SANT'  ILARIO.  29 

Donna  Faustina.  Her  face  was  pale  and  her  eyes  flashed 
angrily.  She,  too,  had  heard  Flavia's  stage  whisper  and 
was  even  more  annoyed  than  her  mother.  Gouache  went 
his  way  toward  his  lodging  in  the  company  of  the  sur 
geon,  pondering  on  the  inscrutable  mysteries  of  the 
Roman  household  of  which  he  had  been  vouchsafed  a 
glimpse.  He  was  in  pain  from  his  head  and  shoulder, 
but  insisted  that  the  walk  would  do  him  good  and  refused 
the  cab  which  his  companion  had  brought.  A  broken 
collar-bone  is  not  a  dangerous  matter,  but  it  can  be  very 
troublesome  for  a  while,  and  the  artist  was  glad  to  get 
back  to  his  lodgings  and  to  find  himself  comfortably 
installed  in  an  easy  chair  with  something  to  eat  before 
him,  of  a  more  substantial  nature  than  the  Principessa 
Montevarchi's  infusions  of  camomile  and  mallows. 


CHAPTER   III. 

While  Giovanni  was  at  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi,  and 
while  Corona  was  busy  with  her  dressmakers,  Prince 
Saracinesca  was  dozing  over  the  Osservatore  Romano  in 
his  study.  To  tell  the  truth  the  paper  was  less  dull  than 
visual,  for  there  was  war  and  rumour  of  war  in  its  columns. 
Garibaldi  had  raised  a  force  of  volunteers  and  was  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Arezzo,  beginning  to  skirmish  with  the 
outlying  posts  of  the  pontifical  army  along  the  fron 
tier.  The  old  gentleman  did  not  know,  of  course,  that 
on  that  very  day  the  Italian  Government  was  issuing  its 
proclamation  against  the  great  agitator,  and  possibly  if 
he  had  been  aware  of  the  incident  it  would  not  have  pro 
duced  any  very  strong  impression  upon  his  convictions. 
Garibaldi  was  a  fact,  and  Saracinesca  did  not  believe 
that  any  proclamations  would  interfere  with  his  march 
unless  backed  by  some  more  tangible  force.  Even  had 
he  known  that  the  guerilla  general  had  been  arrested  at 
Sinalunga  and  put  in  confinement  as  soon  as  the  procla 
mation  had  appeared,  the  prince  would  have  foreseen 
clearly  enough  that  the  prisoner's  escape  would  be  only 


30  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

a  question  of  a  few  days,  since  there  were  manifold  evi 
dences  that  an  understanding  existed  between  Ratazzi 
and  Garibaldi  of  much  the  same  nature  as  that  which  in 
1860  had  been  maintained  between  Garibaldi  and  Cavour 
during  the  advance  upon  Naples.  The  Italian  Govern 
ment  kept  men  under  arms  to  be  ready  to  take  advantage 
of  any  successes  obtained  by  the  Garibaldian  volunteers, 
and  at  the  same  time  to  suppress  the  republican  tenden 
cies  of  the  latter,  which  broke  out  afresh  with  every  new 
advance,  and  disappeared,  as  by  magic,  under  the  depress 
ing  influence  of  a  forced  retreat. 

The  prince  knew  all  these  things,  and  had  reflected 
upon  them  so  often  that  they  no  longer  afforded  enough 
interest  to  keep  him  awake.  The  warm  September  sun 
streamed  into  the  study  and  fell  upon  the  paper  as  it 
slowly  slipped  over  the  old  gentleman's  knees,  while  his 
head  sank  lower  and  lower  on  his  breast.  The  old  enam 
elled  clock  upon  the  chimney-piece  ticked  more  loudly, 
as  clocks  seem  to  do  when  people  are  asleep  and  they  are 
left  to  their  own  devices,  and  a  few  belated  flies  chased 
each  other  in  the  sunbeams. 

•  The  silence  was  broken  by  the  entrance  of  a  servant, 
who  would  have  withdrawn  again  when  he  saw  that  his 
master  was  napping,  had  not  the  latter  stirred  and  raised 
his  head  before  the  man  had  time  to  get  away.  Then  the 
fellow  came  forward  with  an  apology  and  presented  a 
visiting-card.  The  prince  stared  at  the  bit  of  pasteboard, 
rubbed  his  eyes,  stared  again,  and  then  laid  it  upon  the 
table  beside  him,  his  eyes  still  resting  on  the  name, 
which  seemed  so  much  to  surprise  him.  Then  he  told 
the  footman  to  introduce  the  visitor,  and  a  few  moments 
later  a  very  tall  man  entered  the  room,  hat  in  hand,  and 
advanced  slowly  towards  him  with  the  air  of  a  person 
who  has  a  perfect  right  to  present  himself  but  wishes  to 
give  his  host  time  to  recognise  him. 

The  prince  remembered  the  newcomer  very  well.  The 
closely-buttoned  frock-coat  showed  the  man's  imposing 
figure  to  greater  advantage  than  the  dress  in  which  Sara- 
cinesca  had  last  seen  him,  but  there  was  no  mistaking 
the  personality.  There  was  the  same  lean  but  massive 
face,  broadened  by  the  high  cheekbones  and  the  promi 
nent  square  jaw;  there  were  the  same  piercing  black 


SANT'  ILARIO.  31 

eyes,  set  near  together  under  eyebrows  that  met  in  the 
midst  of  the  forehead,  the  same  thin  and  cruel  lips,  and 
the  same  strongly-marked  nose,  set  broadly  on  at  the 
nostrils,  though  pointed  and  keen.  Had  the  prince  had 
any  doubts  as  to  his  visitor's  identity  they  would  have 
been  dispelled  by  the  man's  great  height  and  immense 
breadth  of  shoulder,  which  would  have  made  it  hard 
indeed  for  him  to  disguise  himself  had  he  wished  to  do 
so.  But  though  very  much  surprised,  Saracinesca  had 
no  doubts  whatever.  The  only  points  that  were  new  to 
him  in  the  figure  before  him  were  the  outward  manner 
and  appearance,  and  the  dress  of  a  gentleman. 

"  I  trust  I  am  not  disturbing  you,  prince?  "  The  words 
were  spoken  in  a  deep,  clear  voice,  and  with  a  notable 
southern  accent. 

"Not  at  all.  I  confess  I  am  astonished  at  seeing  you 
in  Rome.  Is  there  anything  I  can  do  for  you?  I  shall 
always  be  grateful  to  you  for  having  been  alive  to  testify 
to  the  falsehood  of  that  accusation  made  against  my  son. 
Fray  sit  down.  How  is  your  Signora?  And  the  children? 
All  well,  I  hope?" 

"  My  wife  is  dead, "  returned  the  other,  and  the  grave 
tones  of  his  bass  voice  lent  solemnity  to  the  simple 
statement. 

"  I  am  sincerely  sorry "  began  the  prince,  but  his 

visitor  interrupted  him. 

"  The  children  are  well.  They  are  in  Aquila  for  the 
present.  I  have  come  to  establish  myself  in  Rome,  and 
my  first  visit  is  naturally  to  yourself,  since  I  have  the 
advantage  of  being  your  cousin." 

"Naturally,"  ejaculated  Saracinesca,  though  his  face 
expressed  considerable  surprise. 

"Do  not  imagine  that  I  am  going  to  impose  myself 
upon  you  as  a  poor  relation, "  continued  the  other  with  a 
faint  smile.  "Fortune  has  been  kind  to  me  since  we 
met,  perhaps  as  a  compensation  for  the  loss  I  suffered 
in  the  death  of  my  poor  wife.  I  have  a  sufficient  inde 
pendence  and  can  hold  my  own." 

"  I  never  supposed " 

"  You  might  naturally  have  supposed  that  I  had  come 
to  solicit  your  favour,  though  it  is  not  the  case.  When 
we  parted  I  was  an  innkeeper  in  Aquila.  I  have  no 


32  SANT'  ILARIO. 

cause  to  be  ashamed  of  my  past  profession.  I  only  wish 
to  let  you  know  that  it  is  altogether  past,  and  that  I 
intend  to  resume  the  position  which  my  great-grandfather 
foolishly  forfeited.  As  you  are  the  present  head  of  the 
family  I  judged  that  it  was  my  duty  to  inform  you  of  the 
fact  immediately." 

"By  all  means.  I  imagined  this  must  be  the  case 
from  your  card.  You  are  entirely  in  your  rights,  and  I 
shall  take  great  pleasure  in  informing  every  one  of  the 
fact.  You  are  the  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto,  and  the  inn 
at  Aquila  no  longer  exists." 

"  As  these  things  must  be  done,  once  and  for  always, 
I  have  brought  my  papers  to  Eome,"  answered  the  Mar 
chese.  "  They  are  at  your  disposal,  for  you  certainly 
have  a  right  to  see  them,  if  you  like.  I  will  recall  to 
your  memory  the  facts  of  our  history,  in  case  you  have 
forgotten  them." 

"I  know  the  story  well  enough,"  said  Saracinesca. 
"  Our  great-grandfathers  were  brothers.  Yours  went  to 
live  in  Naples.  His  son  grew  up  and  joined  the  French 
against  the  King.  His  lands  were  forfeited,  he  married 
and  died  in  obscurity,  leaving  your  father,  his  only  son. 
Your  father  died  young  and  you  again  are  his  only  son. 
You  married  the  Signora  Felice " 

"Baldi,"  said  the  Marchese,  nodding  in  confirmation 
of  the  various  statements. 

"The  Signora  Felice  Baldi,  by  whom  you  have  two 
children " 

"Boys." 

"  Two  boys.  And  the  Signora  Marchesa,  I  grieve  to 
hear,  is  dead.  Is  that  accurate?" 

"  Perfectly.  There  is  one  circumstance,  connected  with 
our  great-grandfathers,  which  you  have  not  mentioned, 
but  which  I  am  sure  you  remember." 

"  What  is  that  ? "  asked  the  prince,  fixing  his  keen 
eyes  on  his  companion's  face. 

"  It  is  only  this, "  replied  San  Giacinto,  calmly.  "  My 
great-grandfather  was  two  years  older  than  yours.  You 
know  he  never  meant  to  marry,  and  resigned  the  title  to 
his  younger  brother,  who  had  children  already.  He 
took  a  wife  in  his  old  age,  and  my  grandfather  was  the 
son  born  to  him.  That  is  why  you  are  so  much  older 


'  ILARIO.  S3 

than  I,  though  we  are  of  the  same  generation  in  the 
order  of  descent." 

"Yes,"  assented  the  prince.  "That  accounts  for  it. 
Will  you  smoke?" 

Giovanni  Saracinesca,  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto, 
looked  curiously  at  his  cousin  as  he  took  the  proffered 
cigar.  There  was  something  abrupt  in  the  answer  which 
attracted  his  attention  and  roused  his  quick  suspicions. 
He  wondered  whether  that  former  exchange  of  titles, 
and  consequent  exchange  of  positions  were  an  unpleasant 
subject  of  conversation  to  the  prince.  But  the  latter,  as 
though  anticipating  such  a  doubt  in  his  companion's 
mind,  at  once  returned  to  the  question  with  the  boldness 
which  was  natural  to  him. 

"There  was  a  friendly  agreement,"  he  said,  striking  a 
match  and  offering  it  to  the  Marchese.  "  I  have  all  the 
documents,  and  have  studied  them  with  interest.  It 
might  amuse  you  to  see  them,  some  day." 

"I  should  like  to  see  them,  indeed,"  answered  San 
Giacinto.  "  They  must  be  very  curious.  As  I  was  say 
ing,  I  am  going  to  establish  myself  in  Rome.  It  seems 
strange  to  me  to  be  playing  the  gentleman  —  it  must  seem 
even  more  odd  to  you." 

"  It  would  be  truer  to  say  that  you  have  been  playing 
the  innkeeper,"  observed  the  prince,  courteously.  "No 
one  would  suspect  it,"  he  added,  glancing  at  his  com 
panion's  correct  attire. 

"I  have  an  adaptable  nature,"  said  the  Marchese, 
calmly.  "Besides,  I  have  always  looked  forward  to 
again  taking  my  place  in  the  world.  I  have  acquired  a 
little  instruction  —  not  much,  you  will  say,  but  it  is  suf 
ficient  as  the  times  go;  and  as  for  education,  it  is  the 
same  for  every  one,  innkeeper  or  prince.  One  takes  off 
one's  hat,  one  speaks  quietly,  one  says  what  is  agreeable 
to  hear  —  is  it  not  enough?" 

"Quite  enough,"  replied  the  prince.  He  was  tempted 
to  smile  at  his  cousin's  definition  of  manners,  though  he 
could  see  that  the  man  was  quite  able  to  maintain  his 
position.  "  Quite  enough,  indeed,  and  as  for  instruction, 
I  am  afraid  most  of  us  have  forgotten  our  Latin.  You 
need  have  no  anxiety  on  that  score.  But,  tell  me,  how 
comes  it  that,  having  been  bred  in  the  south,  you  prefer 

D 


34  SANT'  ILARIO. 

to  establish  yourself  in  Borne  rather  than  in  Naples? 
They  say  that  you  Neapolitans  do  not  like  us." 

"  I  am  a  Roman  by  descent,  and  I  wish  to  become  one 
in  fact,"  returned  the  Marchese.  "Besides,"  he  added, 
in  a  peculiarly  grave  tone  of  voice,  "  I  do  not  like  the 
new  order  of  things.  Indeed,  I  have  but  one  favour  to 
ask  of  you,  and  that  is  a  great  one." 

"  Anything  in  my  power " 

"  To  present  me  to  the  Holy  Father  as  one  who  desires 
to  become  his  faithful  subject.  Could  you  do  so,  do  you 
think,  without  any  great  inconvenience?" 

"Eh!  I  shall  be  delighted!  Magari!"  answered  the 
prince,  heartily.  "  To  tell  the  truth,  I  was  afraid  you 
meant  to  keep  your  Italian  convictions,  and  that,  in 
Rome,  Avould  be  against  you,  especially  in  these  stormy 
days.  But  if  you  will  join  us  heart  and  soul  you  will  be 
received  with  open  arms.  I  shall  take  great  pleasure  in 
seeing  you  make  the  acquaintance  of  my  son  and  his  wife. 
Come  and  dine  this  evening." 

"Thank  you,"  said  the  Marchese.     "I  will  not  fail." 

After  a  few  more  words  San  Giacinto  took  his  leave, 
and  the  prince  could  not  but  admire  the  way  in  which 
this  man,  who  had  been  brought  up  among  peasants,  or 
at  best  among  the  small  farmers  of  an  outlying  district, 
assumed  at  once  an  air  of  perfect  equality  while  allowing 
just  so  much  of  respect  to  appear  in  his  manner  as  might 
properly  be  shown  by  a  younger  member  to  the  head  of 
a  great  house.  When  he  was  gone  Saracinesca  rang  the 
bell. 

"Pasquale,"  he  said,  addressing  the  old  butler  who 
answered  the  summons,  "that  gentleman  who  is  just 
gone  is  my  cousin,  Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  who  is 
called  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto.  He  will  dine  here  this 
evening.  You  will  call  him  Eccellenza,  and  treat  him  as 
a  member  of  the  family.  Go  and  ask  the  princess  if  she 
will  receive  me." 

Pasquale  opened  his  mental  eyes  very  wide  as  he 
bowed  and  left  the  room.  He  had  never  heard  of  this 
other  Saracinesca,  and  the  appearance  of  a  new  member 
of  the  family  upon  the  scene,  who  must,  from  his  appear 
ance,  have  been  in  existence  between  thirty  and  forty 
years,  struck  him  as  astonishing  in  the  extreme;  for  the 


SANT'  TLARIO.  35 

old  servant  had  been  bred  up  in  the  house  from  a  boy 
and  imagined  himself  master  of  all  the  secrets  connected 
with  the  Saracinesca  household. 

He  was,  indeed,  scarcely  less  surprised  than  his  mas 
ter,  who,  although  he  had  been  aware  for  some  time  past 
that  Giovanni  Saracinesca  existed  and  was  his  cousin, 
had  never  anticipated  the  event  of  his  coming  to  Rome, 
and  had  expected  still  less  that  the  innkeeper  would  ever 
assume  the  title  to  which  he  had  a  right  and  play  the  part 
of  a  gentleman,  as  he  himself  had  expressed  it.  There 
was  a  strange  mixture  of  boldness  and  foresight  in  the 
way  the  old  prince  had  received  his  new  relation.  He 
knew  the  strength  of  his  own  position  in  society,  and 
that  the  introduction  of  a  humble  cousin  could  not  pos 
sibly  do  him  harm.  At  the  worst,  people  might  laugh  a 
little  among  themselves  and  remark  that  the  Marchese 
must  be  a  nuisance  to  the  Saracinesca.  On  the  other 
hand,  the  prince  was  struck  from  the  first  with  the  air 
of  self-possession  which  he  discerned  in  San  Giacinto, 
and  foresaw  that  the  man  would  very  probably  play  a 
part  in  Roman  life.  He  was  a  man  who  might  be  dis 
liked,  but  who  could  not  be  despised;  and  since  his 
claims  to  consideration  were  undeniably  genuine,  it 
seemed  wiser  to  accept  him  from  the  first  as  a  member 
of  the  family  and  unhesitatingly  to  treat  him  as  such. 
After  all,  he  demanded  nothing  to  which  he  had  not  a 
clear  right  from  the  moment  he  announced  his  intention 
of  taking  his  place  in  the  world,  and  it  was  certainly  far 
wiser  to  receive  him  cordially  at  once,  than  to  draw  back 
from  acknowledging  the  relationship  because  he  had  been 
brought  up  in  another  sphere. 

This  was  the  substance  of  what  Prince  Saracinesca 
communicated  to  his  daughter-in-law  a  few  minutes  later. 
She  listened  patiently  to  all  he  had  to  say,  only  asking 
a  question  now  and  then  in  order  to  understand  more 
clearly  what  had  happened.  She  was  curious  to  see  the 
man  whose  name  had  once  been  so  strangely  confounded 
with  her  husband's  by  the  machinations  of  the  Conte  De] 
Ferice  and  Donna  Tullia  Mayer,  and  she  frankly  con 
fessed  her  curiosity  and  her  satisfaction  at  the  prospect 
of  meeting  San  Giacinto  that  evening.  While  she  was 
talking  with  the  prince,  Giovanni  unexpectedly  returned 


36  SANT'  ILARIO. 

from  his  walk.  He  had  turned  homewards  as  soon  as  he 
had  sent  the  military  surgeon  to  Gouache. 

"Well,  Giovannino,"  cried  the  old  gentleman,  "the 
prodigal  innkeeper  has  returned  to  the  bosom  of  the 
family." 

"What  innkeeper?" 

"Your  worthy  namesake,  and  cousin,  Giovanni  Sara- 
cinesca,  formerly  of  Aquila." 

"  Does  Madame  Mayer  want  to  prove  that  it  is  he  who 
has  married  Corona?  "  inquired  Sant'  Ilario  with  a  laugh. 

"No,  though  I  suppose  he  is  a  candidate  for  marriage. 
I  never  was  more  surprised  in  my  life.  His  wife  is  dead. 
He  is  rich,  or  says  he  is.  He  has  his  card  printed  in 
full,  'Giovanni  Saracinesca,  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto,' 
in  the  most  correct  manner.  He  wears  an  excellent  coat, 
and  announces  his  intention  of  being  presented  to  the 
Pope  and  introduced  to  Roman  society." 

Sant'  Ilario  stared  incredulously  at  his  father,  and 
then  looked  inquiringly  at  his  wife  as  though  to  ask  if  it 
were  not  all  a  jest.  When  he  was  assured  that  the  facts 
were  true  he  looked  grave  and  slowly  stroked  his  pointed 
black  beard,  a  gesture  which  was  very  unusual  with  him, 
and  always  accompanied  the  deepest  meditation. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  receive  him  into 
the  family,"  he  said  at  last.  "But  I  do  not  wholly 
believe  in  his  good  intentions.  We  shall  see.  I  shall 
be  glad  to  make  his  acquaintance." 

"He  is  coming  to  dinner." 

The  conversation  continued  for  some  time  and  the 
arrival  of  San  Giacinto  was  discussed  in  all  its  bearings. 
Corona  took  a  very  practical  view  of  the  question,  and 
said  that  it  was  certainly  best  to  treat  him  well,  thereby 
relieving  her  father-in-law  of  a  considerable  anxiety. 
He  had  indeed  feared  lest  she  should  resent  the  intro 
duction  of  a  man  who  might  reasonably  be  supposed  to 
have  retained  a  certain  coarseness  of  manner  from  his 
early  surroundings,  and  he  knew  that  her  consent  was 
all-important  in  such  a  case,  since  she  was  virtually  the 
mistress  of  the  house.  But  Corona  regarded  the  matter 
in  much  the  same  light  as  the  old  gentleman  himself, 
feeling  that  nothing  of  such  a  nature  could  possibly 
injure  the  imposing  position  of  her  husband's  family, 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  87 

and  taking  it  for  granted  that  no  one  who  had  good  blood 
in  his  veins  could  ever  behave  outrageously.  Of  all  the 
three,  Sant'  Ilario  was  the  most  silent  and  thoughtful, 
for  he  feared  certain  consequences  from  the  arrival  of 
this  new  relation  which  did  not  present  themselves  to  the 
minds  of  the  others,  and  was  resolved  to  be  cautious 
accordingly,  even  while  appearing  to  receive  San  Giacinto 
with  all  due  cordiality.  'Later  in  the  day  he  was  alone 
with  his  father  for  a  few  minutes. 

"Do  you  like  this  fellow?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"No,"  answered  the  prince. 

"Neither  do  I,  though  I  have  not  seen  him." 

"We  shall  see,"  was  the  old  gentleman's  answer. 

The  evening  came,  and  at  the  appointed  hour  San 
Giacinto  was  announced.  Both  Corona  and  her  husband 
were  surprised  at  his  imposing  appearance,  as  well  as  at 
the  dignity  and  self-possession  he  displayed.  His  south 
ern  accent  was  not  more  noticeable  than  that  of  many 
Neapolitan  gentlemen,  and  his  conversation,  if  neither 
very  brilliant  nor  very  fluent,  was  not  devoid  of  interest. 
He  talked  of  the  agricultural  condition  of  the  new  Italy, 
and  old  Saracinesca  and  his  son  were  both  interested  in 
the  subject.  They  noticed,  too,  that  during  dinner  no 
word  escaped  him  which  could  give  any  clue  to  his  former 
occupation  or  position,  though  afterwards,  when  the 
servants  were  not  present,  he  alluded  more  than  once 
with  a  frank  smile  to  his  experiences  as  an  innkeeper. 
On  the  whole,  he  seemed  modest  and  reserved,  yet  per 
fectly  self-possessed  and  conscious  of  his  right  to  be 
where  he  was. 

Such  conduct  on  the  part  of  such  a  man  did  not  appear 
so  surprising  to  the  Saracinesca  household,  as  it  would 
have  seemed  to  foreigners.  San  Giacinto  had  said  that 
he  had  an  adaptable  character,  and  that  adaptability  is 
one  of  the  most  noticeable  features  of  the  Italian  race. 
It  is  not  necessary  to  discuss  the  causes  of  this  pecul 
iarity.  They  would  be  incomprehensible  to  the  foreigner 
at  large,  who  never  has  any  real  understanding  of 
Italians.  I  do  not  hesitate  to  say  that,  without  a  single 
exception,  every  foreigner,  poet  or  prose-writer,  who  has 
treated  of  these  people  has  more  or  less  grossly  misun 
derstood  them.  That  is  a  sweeping  statement,  when  it 


88  SANT'  ILARIO. 

is  considered  that  few  men  of  the  highest  genius  in  our 
century  have  not  at  one  time  or  another  set  down  upon 
paper  their  several  estimates  of  the  Italian  race.  The 
requisite  for  accurately  describing  people,  however,  is 
not  genius,  but  knowledge  of  the  subject.  The  poet 
commonly  sees  himself  in  others,  and  the  modern  writer 
upon  Italy  is  apt  to  believe  that  he  can  see  others  in 
himself.  The  reflection  of  an  Italian  upon  the  mental 
retina  of  the  foreigner  is  as  deceptive  as  his  own  outward 
image  is  when  seen  upon  the  polished  surface  of  a  con 
cave  mirror;  and  indeed  the  character  studies  of  many 
great  men,  when  the  subject  is  taken  from  a  race  not 
their  own,  remind  one  very  forcibly  of  what  may  be  seen 
by  contemplating  oneself  in  the  bowl  of  a  bright  silver 
spoon.  To  understand  Italians  a  man  must  have  been 
born  and  bred  among  them;  and  even  then  the  harder, 
fiercer  instinct,  which  dwells  in  northern  blood,  may 
deceive  the  student  and  lead  him  far  astray.  The 
Italian  is  an  exceedingly  simple  creature,  and  is  apt  to 
share  the  opinion  of  the  ostrich,  who  ducks  his  head  and 
believes  his  whole  body  is  hidden.  Foreigners  use  strong 
language  concerning  the  Italian  lie;  but  this  only  proves 
how  extremely  transparent  the  deception  is.  It  is  indeed 
a  singular  fact,  but  one  which  may  often  be  observed, 
that  two  Italians  who  lie  systematically  will  frequently 
believe  each  other,  to  their  own  ruin,  with  a  childlike 
faith  rarely  found  north  of  the  Alps.  This  seems  to  me 
to  prove  that  their  dishonesty  has  outgrown  their  indolent 
intelligence ;  and  indeed  they  deceive  themselves  nearly 
as  often  as  they  succeed  in  deceiving  their  neighbours. 
In  a  country  where  a  lie  easily  finds  credence,  lying  is 
not  likely  to  be  elevated  to  the  rank  of  a  fine  art.  I  have 
often  wondered  how  such  men  as  Cesare  Borgia  suc 
ceeded  in  entrapping  their  enemies  by  snares  which  a 
modern  northerner  would  detect  from  the  first  and  laugh 
to  scorn  as  mere  child's  play. 

There  is  an  extraordinary  readiness  in  Italians  to  fit 
themselves  and  their  lives  to  circumstances  whenever 
they  can  save  themselves  trouble  by  doing  so.  Their 
constitutions  are  convenient  to  this  end,  for  they  are 
temperate  in  most  things  and  do  not  easily  fall  into 
habits  which  they  cannot  change  at  will.  The  desire  to 


SANT'  ILARIO.  39 

avoid  trouble  makes  them  the  most  courteous  among 
nations;  and  they  are  singularly  obliging  to  strangers 
when,  by  conferring  an  obligation,  they  are  able  to  make 
an  acquaintance  who  will  help  them  to  pass  an  idle  hour 
in  agreeable  conversation.  They  are  equally  surprised, 
whether  a  stranger  suspects  them  of  making  advances  for 
the  sake  of  extracting  money  from  him,  or  expresses 
resentment  at  having  been  fraudulently  induced  to  part 
with  any  cash.  The  beggar  in  the  street  howls  like  a 
madman  if  you  refuse  an  alms,  and  calls  you  an  idiot  to 
his  fellow-mendicant  if  you  give  him  five  centimes. 
The  servant  says  in  his  heart  that  his  foreign  employer 
is  a  fool,  and  sheds  tears  of  rage  and  mortification  when 
his  shallow  devices  for  petty  cheating  are  discovered. 
And  yet  the  servant,  the  beggar,  the  shopkeeper,  and  the 
gentleman,  are  obliging  sometimes  almost  to  philan 
thropy,  and  are  ever  ready  to  make  themselves  agreeable. 

The  Marchese  di  San  G-iacinto  differed  from  his  rela 
tions,  the  Saracinesca  princes,  in  that  he  was  a  full-blooded 
Italian,  and  not  the  result  of  a  cosmopolitan  race-fusion, 
like  so  many  of  the  Roman  nobles.  He  had  not  the 
Roman  traditions,  but,  on  the  other  hand,  he  had  his 
full  share  of  the  national  characteristics,  together  with 
something  individual  which  lifted  him  above  the  common 
herd  in  point  of  intelligence  and  in  strength.  He  was  a 
noticeable  man;  all  the  more  so  because,  with  many 
pleasant  qualities,  his  countrymen  rarely  possess  that 
physical  and  mental  combination  of  size,  energy,  and 
reserve,  which  inspires  the  sort  of  respect  enjoyed  by 
imposing  personages. 

As  he  sat  talking  with  the  family  after  dinner  on  the 
evening  of  his  first  introduction  to  the  household  what 
passed  in  his  mind  and  in  the  minds  of  his  hosts  can  be 
easily  stated. 

Sant'  Ilario,  whose  ideas  were  more  clear  upon  most 
subjects  than  those  of  his  father  or  his  wife,  said  to 
himself  that  he  did  not  like  the  man;  that  he  suspected 
him,  and  believed  he  had  some  hidden  intention  in  com 
ing  to  Rome;  that  it  would  be  wise  to  watch  him  per 
petually  and  to  question  everything  he  did;  but  that 
he  was  undeniably  a  relation,  possessing  every  right  to 
consideration,  and  entitled  to  be  treated  with  a  certain 


40  SANT'  ILARIO. 

familiarity;  that,  finally  and  on  the  whole,  he  was  a 
nuisance,  to  be  borne  with  a  good  grace  and  a  sufficient 
show  of  cordiality. 

San  Giacinto,  for  his  part,  was  deeply  engaged  in 
maintaining  the  exact  standard  of  manners  which  he  knew 
to  be  necessary  for  the  occasion,  and  his  thoughts  con 
cerning  his  relatives  were  not  yet  altogether  defined.  It 
was  his  intention  to  take  his  place  among  them,  and  he- 
was  doing  his  best  to  accomplish  this  object  as  speedily 
and  quietly  as  possible.  He  had  not  supposed  that 
princes  and  princesses  were  in  any  way  different  from 
other  human  beings  except  by  the  accidents  of  wealth 
and  social  position.  Master  of  these  two  requisites 
there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  feel  as  much  at 
home  with  the  Saracinesca  as  he  had  felt  in  the  society 
of  the  mayor  and  municipal  council  of  Aquila,  who  pos 
sessed  those  qualifications  also,  though  in  a  less  degree. 
The  Saracinesca  probably  thought  about  most  questions 
very  much  as  he  himself  did,  or  if  there  were  any  differ 
ence  in  their  mode  of  thinking  it  was  due  to  Roman 
prejudice  and  tradition  rather  than  to  any  peculiarity 
inherent  in  the  organisation  of  the  members  of  the  higher 
aristocracy.  If  he  should  find  himself  in  any  dilemma 
owing  to  his  ignorance  of  social  details  he  would  not 
hesitate  to  apply  to  the  prince  for  information,  since  it 
was  by  no  means  his  fault  if  he  had  been  brought  up  an 
innkeeper  and  was  now  to  be  a  nobleman.  His  imme 
diate  object  was  to  place  himself  among  his  equals,  and 
his  next  purpose  was  to  marry  again,  in  his  new  rank,  a 
woman  of  good  position  and  fortune.  Of  this  matter 
he  intended  to  speak  to  the  prince  in  due  time,  when  he 
should  have  secured  the  first  requisite  to  his  marriage 
by  establishing  himself  firmly  in  society.  He  meant  to 
apply  to  the  prince,  ostensibly  as  to  the  head  of  the 
family,  thereby  showing  a  deference  to  that  dignity, 
which  he  supposed  would  be  pleasing  to  the  old  gentle 
man;  but  he  had  not  forgotten  in  his  calculations  the 
pride  which  old  Saracinesca  must  naturally  feel  in  his 
race,  and  which  would  probably  induce  him  to  take  very 
great  pains  in  finding  a  suitable  wife  for  San  Giacinto 
rather  than  permit  the  latter  to  contract  a  discreditable 
alliance. 


SANT'  ILABIO.  41 

San  Giacinto  left  the  house  at  half-past  nine  o'clock, 
under  the  pretext  of  another  engagement,  for  he  did  not 
mean  to  weary  his  relations  with  too  much  of  his  com 
pany  in  the  first  instance.  When  he  was  gone  the  three 
looked  at  each  other  in  silence  for  some  moments. 

"He  has  surprisingly  good  manners,  for  an  innkeeper," 
said  Corona  at  last.  "No  one  will  ever  suspect  his 
former  life.  But  I  do  not  like  him." 

"Nor  I,"  said  the  prince. 

"He  wants  something,"  said  Sant'  llario.  "And  he 
will  probably  get  it,"  he  added,  after  a  short  pause. 
"He  has  a  determined  face." 


CHAPTER   IV. 

Anastase  Gouache  recovered  rapidly  from  his  injuries, 
but  not  so  quickly  as  he  wished.  There  was  trouble  in 
the  air,  and  many  of  his  comrades  were  already  gone  to 
the  frontier  where  the  skirmishing  with  the  irregular 
volunteers  of  Garibaldi's  guerilla  force  had  now  begun 
in  earnest.  To  be  confined  to  the  city  at  such  a  time 
was  inexpressibly  irksome  to  the  gallant  young  French 
man,  who  had  a  genuine  love  of  fighting  in  him,  and 
longed  for  the  first  sensation  of  danger  and  the  first 
shower  of  whistling  bullets.  But  his  inactivity  was 
inevitable,  and  he  was  obliged  to  submit  with  the  best 
grace  he  could,  hoping  only  that  all  might  not  be  over 
before  he  was  well  enough  to  tramp  out  and  see  some 
service  with  his  companions-in-arms. 

The  situation  was  indeed  urgent.  The  first  article  of 
the  famous  convention  between  France  and  Italy,  ratified 
in  September,  1864,  read  as  follows :  — 

"  Italy  engages  not  to  attack  the  actual  territory  of  the. 
Holy  Father,  and  to  prevent,  even  by  force,  all  attack 
coming  from  outside  against  such  territory." 

Relying  upon  the  observance  of  this  chief  clause, 
France  had  conscientiously  executed  the  condition  im 
posed  by  the  second  article,  which  provided  that  all 


42  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

French  troops  should  be  withdrawn  from  the  States  of 
the  Church.  The  promise  of  Italy  to  prevent  invasion 
by  force  applied  to  Garibaldi  and  his  volunteers.  Accord 
ingly,  on  the  24th  of  September,  1867,  the  Italian  Gov 
ernment  issued  a  proclamation  against  the  band  and  its 
proceedings,  and  arrested  Garibaldi  at  Sinalunga,  in  the 
neighbourhood  of  Arezzo.  This  was  the  only  force 
employed,  and  it  may  be  believed  that  the  Italian 
Government  firmly  expected  that  the  volunteers  would 
disperse  as  soon  as  they  found  themselves  without  a 
leader;  and  had  proper  measures  been  taken  for  keeping 
the  general  in  custody  this  would  in  all  probability  have 
followed  very  shortly,  as  his  sons,  who  were  left  at  large, 
did  not  possess  any  of  their  father's  qualifications  for 
leadership.  Garibaldi,  however,  escaped  eighteen  days 
later,  and  again  joined  his  band,  which  had  meanwhile 
been  defeated  by  the  Pope's  troops  in  a  few  small 
engagements,  and  had  gained  one  or  two  equally  insig 
nificant  advantages  over  the  latter.  As  soon  as  it  was 
known  that  Garibaldi  was  again  at  large,  a  simultaneous 
movement  began,  the  numerous  Garibaldian  emissaries 
who  had  arrived  in  Eome  stirring  up  an  attempt  at 
insurrection  within  the  city,  while  Garibaldi  himself 
made  a  bold  dash  and  seized  Monte  Eotondo,  another 
force  at  the  same  time  striking  at  Sutbiaco,  which,  by  a 
strange  ignorance  of  the  mountains,  Garibaldi  appears 
to  have  believed  to  be  the  southern  key  to  the  Campagna. 
In  consequence  of  the  protestations  of  the  French  min 
ister  to  the  court  of  Italy,  and  perhaps,  too,  in  conse 
quence  of  the  approach  of  a  large  body  of  French  troops 
by  sea,  the  Italian  Government  again  issued  a  proclama 
tion  against  Garibaldi,  who,  however,  remained  in  his 
strong  position  at  Monte  Eotondo.  Finally,  on  the  30th 
of  October,  the  day  on  which  the  French  troops  re-entered 
Eome,  the  Italians  made  a  show  of  interfering  in  the 
Pope's  favour,  General  Menatiea  authorising  the  Italian 
forces  to  enter  the  Papal  States  in  order  to  maintain 
order.  They  did  not,  however,  do  more  than  make  a 
short  advance,  and  no  active  measures  were  taken,  but 
Garibaldi  was  routed  on  the  3d  and  4th  of  November  by 
the  Papal  forces,  and  his  band  being  dispersed  the  inci 
dent  was  at  an  end.  But  for  the  armed  intervention  of 


SANT'  ILARIO.  43 

France  the  result  would  have  been  that  which  actually 
came  about  in  1870,  when,  the  same  Convention  being 
still  valid,  the  French  were  prevented  by  their  own 
disasters  from  sending  a  force  to  the  assistance  of  the 
Pope. 

It  is  not  yet  time  to  discuss  the  question  of  the 
annexation  of  the  States  of  the  Church  to  the  kingdom 
of  Italy.  It  is  sufficient  to  have  shown  that  the  move 
ment  of  1867  took  place  without  any  actual  violation  of 
the  letter  of  the  Convention.  The  spirit  in  which  the 
Italian  Government  acted  might  be  criticised  at  length. 
It  is  sufficient  however  to  notice  that  the  Italian  Gov 
ernment  was,  as  it  still  is,  a  parliamentary  one;  and  to 
add  that  parliamentary  government,  in  general,  exhibits 
its  weakest  side  in  the  emergency  of  Avar,  as  its  greatest 
advantages  are  best  appreciated  in  times  of  peace.  In 
the  Italian  Parliament  of  that  day,  as  in  that  of  the 
present  time,  there  was  a  preponderance  of  representa 
tives  who  considered  Rome  to  be  the  natural  capital  of 
the  country,  and  who  were  as  ready  to  trample  upon 
treaties  for  the  accomplishment  of  what  they  believed  a 
righteous  end,  as  most  parliaments  have  everywhere 
shown  themselves  in  similar  circumstances.  That  major 
ity  differed  widely,  indeed,  in  opinion  from  Garibaldi 
and  Mazzini,  but  they  conceived  that  they  had  a  right 
to  take  full  advantage  of  any  revolution  the  latter 
chanced  to  bring  about,  and  that  it  was  their  duty  to 
their  country  to  direct  the  stream  of  disorder  into  a 
channel  which  should  lead  to  the  aggrandisement  of 
Italy,  by  making  use  of  Italy's  standing  army. 

The  defenders  of  the  Papal  States  found  themselves 
face  to  face,  not  with  any  organised  and  disciplined 
force,  but  with  a  horde  of  brutal  ruffians  and  half-grown 
lads,  desperate  in  that  delight  of  unbridled  license  which 
has  such  attractions  for  the  mob  in  all  countries;  and 
all  alike,  Zouaves,  native  troops  and  Frenchmen,  were 
incensed  to  the  highest  degree  by  the  conduct  of  their 
enemies.  It  would  be  absurd  to  make  the  Italian  Gov 
ernment  responsible  for  the  atrocious  defiling  of  churches, 
the  pillage  and  the  shocking  crimes  of  all  sorts,  which 
marked  the  advance  or  retreat  of  the  Garibaldians ;  but 
it  is  equally  absurd  to  deny  that  a  majority  of  the  Ital- 


44  SANT'  ILARIO. 

ians  regarded  these  doings  as  a  means  to  a  very  desirable 
end,  and,  if  they  had  not  been  hindered  by  the  French, 
would  have  marched  a  couple  of  army  corps  in  excellent 
order  to  the  gates  of  Rome  through  the  channel  opened 
by  a  mob  of  lawless  insurgents. 

Anastase  Gouache  was  disgusted  with  his  state  of 
forced  inaction  as  he  paced  the  crowded  pavement  of 
the  Corso  every  afternoon  for  three  weeks  after  his  acci 
dent,  smoking  endless  cigarettes,  and  cursing  the  fate 
which  kept  him  an  invalid  at  home  when  his  fellow- 
soldiers  were  enjoying  themselves  amidst  the  smell  of 
gunpowder  and  the  adventures  of  frontier  skirmishing. 
It  was  indeed  bad  luck,  he  thought,  to  have  worn  the 
uniform  during  nearly  two  years  of  perfect  health  and 
then  to  be  disabled  just  when  the  fighting  began.  He 
had  one  consolation,  however,  in  the  midst  of  his  annoy 
ance,  and  he  made  the  most  of  it.  He  had  been  fasci 
nated  by  Donna  Faustina  Montevarchi's  brown  eyes,  and 
for  lack  of  any  other  interest  upon  which  to  expend  his 
energy  he  had  so  well  employed  his  time  that  he  was 
now  very  seriously  in  love  with  that  young  lady.  Among 
her  numerous  attractions  was  one  which  had  a  powerful 
influence  on  the  young  artist,  namely,  the  fact  that  she 
was,  according  to  all  human  calculations,  absolutely 
beyond  his  reach.  Nothing  had  more  charm  for  Gouache, 
as  for  many  gifted  and  energetic  young  men,  than  that 
which  it  must  require  a  desperate  effort  to  get,  if  it  could 
be  got  at  all.  Frenchmen,  as  well  as  Italians,  consider 
marriage  so  much  in  the  light  of  a  mere  contract  which 
must  be  settled  between  notaries  and  ratified  by  parental 
assent,  that  to  love  a  young  girl  seems  to  them  like  an 
episode  out  of  a  fairy  tale,  enchantingly  novel  and  alto 
gether  delightful.  To  us,  who  consider  love  as  a  usual 
if  not  an  absolutely  necessary  preliminary  to  marriage, 
this  point  of  view  is  hardly  conceivable ;  but  it  is  enough 
to  tell  a  Frenchman  that  you  have  married  your  wife 
because  you  loved  her,  and  not  because  your  parents  or 
your  circumstances  arranged  the  match  for  you,  to  hear 
him  utter  the  loudest  exclamations  of  genuine  surprise 
and  admiration,  declaring  that  his  ideal  of  happiness, 
which  he  considers  of  course  as  quite  unattainable, 
would  be  to  marry  the  woman  of  his  affections.  The 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  45 

immediate  result  of  a  state  in  which  that  sort  of  bliss  is 
considered  to  be  generally  beyond  the  grasp  of  humanity 
has  been  to  produce  the  moral  peculiarities  of  the  French 
novel,  of  the  French  play,  and  of  the  French  household, 
as  it  is  usually  exhibited  in  books  and  on  the  stage. 

The  artist-Zouave  was  made  of  determined  stuff.  It 
was  not  for  nothing  that  he  had  won  the  great  prize 
which  brought  him  to  the  Academy  in  Rome,  nor  was  it 
out  of  mere  romantic  idleness  that  he  had  thrown  over 
the  feeble  conspiracies  of  Madame  Mayer  and  her  set  in 
order  to  wear  a  uniform.  He  had  profound  convictions, 
though  he  was  not  troubled  with  any  great  number  of 
them.  Each  new  one  which  took  hold  of  him  marked 
an  epoch  in  his  young  life,  and  generally  proved  tena 
cious  in  proportion  as  he  had  formerly  regarded  it  as 
absurd;  and  it  was  a  proof  of  the  sound  balance  of  his 
mind  that  the  three  or  four  real  convictions  which  he 
had  accumulated  during  his  short  life  were  in  no  way 
contradictory  to  each  other.  On  the  contrary,  each  one 
seemed  closely  bound  up  with  the  rest,  and  appeared  to 
bring  a  fresh  energy  to  that  direct  action  which,  with 
Anastase,  was  the  only  possible  result  of  any  belief 
whatsoever. 

There  was  therefore  a  goodly  store  of  logic  in  his  mad 
ness,  and  though,  like  Childe  Harold,  he  had  sighed  to 
many,  and  at  present  loved  but  one,  yet  he  was  deter 
mined,  if  it  were  possible,  that  this  loved  one  should  be 
his;  seeing  that  to  sigh  for  anything,  and  not  to  take  it 
if  it  could  be  taken,  was  the  part  of  a  boy  and  not  of  a 
strong  man.  Moreover,  although  the  social  difficulties 
which  lay  in  his  way  were  an  obstacle  which  would  have 
seemed  insurmountable  to  many,  there  were  two  consid 
erations  which  gave  Anastase  some  hope  of  ultimate  suc 
cess.  In  the  first  place  Donna  Faustina  herself  was  not 
indifferent;  and,  secondly,  Anastase  was  no  longer  the 
humble  student  Avho  had  come  to  Rome  some  years  earlier 
with  notlmag  but  his  pension  in  his  pocket  and  his  talent 
in  his  fingers.  He  was  certainly  not  of  ancient  lineage, 
but  since  he  had  attained  that  position  which  enabled 
him  to  be  received  as  an  equal  in  the  great  world,  and 
had  by  his  skill  accumulated  a  portion  of  that  filthy  lucre 
which  is  the  platform  whereon  society  moves  and  has  its 


46  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

exclusive  being,  he  had  the  advantage  of  talking  to 
Donna  Faustina,  wherever  he  met  her,  in  spite  of  her 
father's  sixty-four  quarterings.  Nor  did  those  meetings 
take  place  only  under  the  auspices  of  so  much  heraldry 
and  blazon,  as  will  presently  appear. 

At  that  period  of  the  year,  and  especially  during  such 
a  time  of  disturbance,  there  was  no  such  thing  as  gaiety 
possible  in  Rome.  People  met  quietly  in  little  knots  at 
each  other's  houses  and  talked  .over  the  state  of  the  coun 
try,  or  walked  and  drove  as  usual  in  the  villas  and  on 
the  Pincio.  When  society  cannot  be  gay  it  is  very  much 
inclined  to  grow  confidential,  to  pull  a  long  face,  and  to 
say  things  which,  if  uttered  above  a  whisper,  would  be 
considered  extremely  shocking,  but  which,  being  commu 
nicated,  augmented,  criticised,  and  passed  about  quickly 
wi  hout  much  noise,  are  considered  exceedingly  interest 
ing.  When  every  one  is  supposed  to  be  talking  of  poli 
tics  it  is  very  easy  for  every  one  to  talk  scandal,  and  to 
construct  neighbourly  biography  of  an  imaginary  character 
which  shall  presently  become  a  part  of  contemporary 
history.  On  the  whole,  society  would  almost  as  gladly 
do  this  as  dance.  In  those  days  of  which  I  am  speaking, 
therefore,  there  were  many  places  where  two  or  three, 
and  sometimes  as  many  as  ten,  were  gathered  together  in 
council,  ostensibly  for  the  purpose  of  devising  means 
whereby  the  Holy  Father  might  overcome  his  enemies, 
though  they  were  very  often  engaged  in  criticising  the 
indecent  haste  exhibited  by  their  best  friends  in  yielding 
to  the  wiles  of  Satan. 

There  were  several  of  these  rallying  points,  among 
which  may  be  chiefly  noticed  the  Palazzo  Valdarno,  the 
Palazzo  Saracinesca,  and  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi.  In 
the  first  of  these  three  it  may  be  observed  in  passing 
that  there  was  a  division  of  opinion,  the  old  people 
being  the  most  rigid  of  conservatives,  while  the  children 
declared  as  loudly  as  they  dared  that  they  were  for  Vic 
tor  Emmanuel  and  United  Italy.  The  Saracinesca.,  on  the 
other  hand,  were  firmly  united  and  determined  to  stand 
by  the  existing  order  of  things.  Lastly,  the  Montevarchi 
all  took  their  opinions  from  the  head  of  the  house,  and 
knew  very  well  that  they  would  submit  like  sheep  to  be 
led  whichever  way  was  most  agreeable  to  the  old  prince. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  47 

The  friends  who  frequented  those  various  gatherings 
were  of  course  careful  to  say  whatever  was  most  sure  to 
please  their  hosts,  and  after  the  set  speeches  were  made 
most  of  them  fell  to  their  usual  occupation  of  talking 
about  each  other. 

Gouache  was  an  old  friend  of  the  Saracinesca,  and 
came  whenever  he  pleased;  since  his  accident,  too,  he 
had  become  better  acquainted  with  the  Montevarchi,  and 
was  always  a  welcome  guest,  as  he  generally  brought  the 
latest  news  of  the  fighting,  as  well  as  the  last  accounts 
from  France,  which  he  easily  got  through  his  friendship 
with  the  young  attaches  of  his  embassy.  It  is  not  sur 
prising  therefore  that  he  should  have  found  so  many 
opportunities  of  meeting  Donna  Faustina,  especially  as 
Corona  di  Sant'  Ilario  had  taken  a  great  fancy  to  the 
young  girl  and  invited  her  constantly  to  the  house. 

On  the  very  first  occasion  when  Gouache  called  upon 
the  Princess  Montevarchi  in  order  to  express  again  his 
thanks  for  the  kindness  he  had  received,  he  found  the 
room  half  full  of  people.  Faustina  was  sitting  alone, 
turning  over  the  pages  of  a  book,  and  no  one  seemed  to 
pay  any  attention  to  her.  After  the  usual  speeches  to 
the  hostess  Gouache  sat  down  beside  her.  She  raised 
her  brown  eyes,  recognised  him,  and  smiled  faintly. 

"  What  a  wonderful  contrast  you  are  enjoying,  Donna 
Faustina,"  said  the  Zouave. 

"How  so?    I  confess  it  seems  monotonous  enough." 

"  I  mean  that  it  is  a  great  change  for  you,  from  the 
choir  of  the  Sacro  Cuore,  from  the  peace  of  a  convent,  to 
this  atmosphere  of  war." 

"Yes;  I  wish  I  were  back  again." 

"You  do  not  like  what  you  have  seen  of  the  world, 
Mademoiselle?  It  is  very  natural.  If  the  world  were 
always  like  this  its  attraction  would  not  be  dangerous. 
It  is  the  pomps  and  vanities  that  are  delightful." 

"I  wish  they  would  begin  then,"  answered  Donna 
Faustina  with  more  natural  frankness  than  is  generally 
found  in  young  girls  of  her  education. 

"But  were  you  not  taught  by  the  good  sisters  that 
those  things  are  of  the  devil?"  asked  Gouache  with  a 
smile. 

"  Of  course.     But  Flavia  says  they  are  very  nice." 


48  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Gouache  imagined  that  Flavia  ought  to  know,  but  he 
thought  fit  to  conceal  his  conviction. 

"You  mean  Donna  Flavia,  your  sister,  Mademoi 
selle?" 

"Yes." 

"I  suppose  you  are  very  fond  of  her,  are  you  not?  It 
must  be  very  pleasant  to  have  a  sister  so  nearly  of  one's 
own  age  in  the  world." 

"  She  is  much  older  than  I,  but  I  think  we  shall  be 
very  good  friends." 

"  Your  family  must  be  almost  as  much  strangers  to  you 
as  the  rest  of  the  world,"  observed  Gouache.  "  Of  course 
you  have  only  seen  them  occasionally  for  a  long  time 
past.  You  are  fond  of  reading,  I  see." 

He  made  this  remark  to  change  the  subject,  and  glanced 
at  the  book  the  young  girl  still  held  in  her  hand. 

"It  is  a  new  book,"  she  said,  opening  the  volume  at 
the  title-page.  "  It  is  Manon  Lescaut.  Flavia  has  read 
it  —  it  is  by  the  Abbe  Prevost.  Do  you  know  him?" 

Gouache  did  not  know  whether  to  laugh  or  to  look 
grave. 

"Did  your  mother  give  it  to  you?"  he  asked. 

"  No,  but  she  says  that  as  it  is  by  an  abbe,  she  sup 
poses  it  must  be  very  moral.  It  is  true  that  it  has  not 
the  imprimatur,  but  being  by  a  priest  it  cannot  possibly 
be  on  the  Index." 

"  I  do  not  know, "  replied  Gouache,  "  Prevost  was  cer 
tainly  in  holy  orders,  but  I  do  not  know  him,  as  he  died 
rather  more  than  a  hundred  years  ago.  You  see  the  book 
is  not  new." 

"  Oh !  "  exclaimed  Donna  Faustina,  "  I  thought  it  was. 
Why  do  you  laugh?  Am  I  very  ignorant  not  to  know  all 
about  it?  " 

"No,  indeed.  Only,  you  will  pardon  me,  Mademoi 
selle,  if  I  offer  a  suggestion.  You  see  I  am  French  and 
know  a  little  about  these  matters.  Yoii  will  permit 
me?" 

Faustina  opened  her  brown  eyes  very  wide,  and  nodded 
gravely. 

"  If  I  were  you,  I  would  not  read  that  book  yet.  You 
are  too  young." 

"You  seem  to  forget  that  I  am  eighteen  years  old, 
Monsieur  Gouache." 


SANT'  ILARIO.  49 

"No,  not  at  all.  But  five  and  twenty  is  a  better  age 
to  read  such  books.  Believe  me,"  he  added  seriously, 
"that  story  is  not  meant  for  you." 

Faustina  looked  at  him  for  a  few  seconds  and  then  laid 
the  volume  on  the  table,  pushing  it  away  from  her  with 
a  puzzled  air.  Gouache  was  inwardly  much  amused  at 
the  idea  of  finding  himself  the  moral  preceptor  of  a  young 
girl  he  scarcely  knew,  in  the  house  of  her  parents,  who 
passed  for  the  most  strait-laced  of  their  kind.  A  feeling 
of  deep  resentment  against  Flavia,  however,  began  to 
rise  beneath  his  first  sensation  of  surprise. 

"What  are  books  for?"  asked  Donna  Faustina,  with 
a  little  sigh.  "  The  good  ones  are  dreadfully  dull,  and 
it  is  wrong  to  read  the  amusing  ones  —  until  one  is  mar 
ried.  I  wonder  why?" 

Gouache  did  not  find  any  immediate  answer  and  might 
have  been  seriously  embarrassed  had  not  Giovanni  Sant' 
Ilario  come  up  just  then.  Gouache  rose  to  relinquish  his 
seat  to  the  newcomer,  and  as  he  passed  before  the  table 
deftly  turned  over  the  book  with  his  finger  so  that  the 
title  should  not  be  visible.  It  jarred  disagreeably  on  his 
sensibilities  to  think  that  Giovanni  might  see  a  copy  of 
Manon  Lescaut  lying  by  the  elbow  of  Donna  Faustina 
Montevarchi.  Sant'  Ilario  did  not  see  the  action  and 
probably  would  not  have  noticed  it  if  he  had. 

Anastase  pondered  all  that  afternoon  and  part  of  the 
next  morning  over  his  short  conversation,  and  the  only 
conclusion  at  which  he  arrived  was  that  Faustina  was 
the  most  fascinating  girl  he  had  ever  met.  When  he 
compared  the  result  produced  in  his  mind  with  his  ac 
curate  recollection  of  what  had  passed  between  them,  he 
laughed  at  his  haste  and  called  himself  a  fool  for  yield 
ing  to  such  nonsensical  ideas.  The  conversation  of  a 
young  girl,  he  argued,  could  only  be  amusing  for  a  short 
time.  He  wondered  what  he  should  say  at  their  next 
meeting,  since  all  such  talk,  according  to  his  notions, 
must  inevitably  consist  of  commonplaces.  And  yet  at 
the  end  of  a  quarter  of  an  hour  of  such  meditation  he 
found  that  he  was  constructing  an  interview  which  was 
anything  but  dull,  at  least  in  his  own  anticipatory 
opinion. 

Meanwhile  the  first  ten  days  of  October  passed  in' 


50  SANT'  ILARIO. 

comparative  quiet.  The  news  of  Garibaldi's  arrest  pro 
duced  temporary  lull  in  the  excitement  felt  in  Home, 
although  the  real  struggle  was  yet  to  come.  People 
observed  to  each  other  that  strange  faces  were  to  be  seen 
in  the  streets,  but  as  no  one  could  enter  without  a  proper 
passport,  very  little  anxiety  gained  the  public  mind. 

Gouache  saw  Faustina  very  often  during  the  month 
that  followed  his  accident.  Such  good  fortune  would 
have  been  impossible  under  any  other  circumstances, 
but,  as  has  been  explained,  there  were  numerous  little 
social  confabulations  on  foot,  for  people  were  drawn  to 
gether  by  a  vague  sense  of  common  danger,  and  the  fre 
quent  meetings  of  the  handsome  Zouave  with  the 
youngest  of  the  Montevarchi  passed  unnoticed  in  the 
general  stir.  The  old  princess  indeed  often  saw  the  two 
together,  but  partly  owing  to  her  English  breeding,  and 
partly  bscause  Gouache  was  not  in  the  least  eligible  or 
possible  as  a  husband  for  her  daughter,  she  attached  no 
importance  to  the  acquaintance.  The  news  that  Gari 
baldi  was  again  at  large  caused  great  excitement,  and 
every  day  brought  fresh  news  of  small  engagements 
along  the  frontier.  Gouache  was  not  yet  quite  recov 
ered,  though  he  felt  as  strong  as  ever,  and  applied  every 
day  for  leave  to  go  to  the  front.  At  last,  on  the  22d  of 
October,  the  surgeon  pronounced  him  to  be  completely 
recovered,  and  Anastase  was  ordered  to  leave  the  city  on 
the  following  morning  at  daybreak. 

As  he  mounted  the  sombre  staircase  of  the  Palazzo 
Saracinesca  on  the  afternoon  previous  to  his  departure, 
the  predominant  feeling  in  his  breast  was  great  satisfac 
tion  and  joy  at  being  on  the  eve  of  seeing  active  service, 
and  he  himself  was  surprised  at  the  sharp  pang  he  suf 
fered  in  the  anticipation  of  bidding  farewell  to  his 
friends.  He  knew  what  friend  it  was  whom  he  dreaded 
to  leave,  and  how  bitter  that  parting  would  be,  for  which 
three  weeks  earlier  he  could  have  summoned  a  neat 
speech  expressing  just  so  much  of  feeling  as  should  be 
calculated  to  raise  an  interest  in  the  hearer,  and  prompted 
by  just  so  much  delicate  regret  as  should  impart  a  savour 
of  romance  to  his  march  011  the  next  day.  It  was  differ 
ent  now. 

Donna  Faustina  was  in  the  room,  as  he  had  reason  to 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  51 

expect,  but  it  was  several  minutes  before  Anastase  could 
summon  the  determination  necessary  to  go  to  her  side. 
She  was  standing  near  the  piano,  which  faced  outwards 
towards  the  body  of  the  room,  but  was  screened  by  a 
semicircular  arrangement  of  plants,  a  novel  idea  lately 
introduced  by  Corona,  who  was  weary  of  the  stiff  old- 
fashioned  way  of  setting  all  the  furniture  against  the 
wall.  Faustina  was  standing  at  this  point  therefore, 
when  Gouache  made  towards  her,  having  done  homage 
to  Corona  and  to  the  other  ladies  in  the  room.  His 
attention  was  arrested  for  a  moment  by  the  sight  of  San 
Giacinto's  gigantic  figure.  The  cousin  of  the  house  was 
standing  before  Flavia  Montevarchi,  bending  slightly 
towards  her  and  talking  in  low  tones.  His  magnificent 
proportions  made  him  by  far  the  most  noticeable  person 
in  the  room,  and  it  is  no  wonder  that  Gouache  paused 
and  looked  at  him,  mentally  observing  that  the  two  would 
make  a  fine  couple. 

As  he  stood  still  he  became  aware  that  Corona  herself 
was  at  his  side.  He  glanced  at  her  with  something  of 
inquiry  in  his  eyes,  and  was  about  to  speak  when  she 
made  him  a  sign  to  follow  her.  They  sat  down  together 
in  a  deserted  corner  at  the  opposite  end  of  the  room. 

"  I  have  something  to  say  to  you,  Monsieur  Gouache, " 
she  said,  in  a  low  voice,  as  she  settled  herself  against  the 
cushions.  "  I  do  not  know  that  I  have  any  right  to  speak, 
except  that  of  a  good  friend  —  and  of  a  woman. " 

"I  am  at  your  orders,  princess." 

"  No,  I  have  no  orders  to  give  you.  I  have  only  a 
suggestion  to  make.  I  have  watched  you  often  during 
the  last  month.  My  advice  begins  with  a  question.  Do 
you  love  her?" 

Gouache's  first  instinct  was  to  express  the  annoyance  he 
felt  at  this  interrogation.  He  moved  quickly  and  glanced 
sharply  a,t  Corona's  velvet  eyes.  Before  the  words  that 
were  on  his  lips  could  be  spoken  he  remembered  all  the 
secret  reverence  and  respect  he  had  felt  for  this  woman 
since  he  had  first  known  her,  he  remembered  how  he  had 
always  regarded  her  as  a  sort  of  goddess,  a  superior  being, 
at  once  woman  and  angel,  placed  far  beyond  the  reach  of 
mortals  like  himself.  His  irritation  vanished  as  quickly 
as  it  had  arisen.  But  Corona  had  seen  it. 


52  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"Are  you  angry?"  she  asked. 

"If  you  knew  how  I  worship  you,  you  would  know 
that  I  am  not,"  answered  Gouache  with  a  strange  sim 
plicity. 

For  an  instant  the  princess's  deep  eyes  flashed  and  a 
dark  blush  mounted  through  her  olive  skin.  She  drew 
back,  rather  proudly.  A  delicate,  gentle  smile  played 
round  the  soldier's  mouth. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  your  turn  to  be  angry,  Madame, "  he 
said,  quietly.  "But  you  need  not  be.  I  would  say  it  to 
your  husband,  as  I  would  say  it  to  you  in  his  presence. 
I  worship  you.  You  are  the  most  beautiful  woman  in 
the  world,  the  most  nobly  good.  Everybody  knows  it, 
why  should  I  not  say  it?  I  wish  I  were  a  little  child, 
and  that  you  were  my  mother.  Are  you  angry  still?" 

Corona  was  silent,  and  her  eyes  grew  soft  again  as  she 
looked  kindly  at  the  man  beside  her.  She  did  not 
understand  him,  but  she  knew  that  he  meant  to  express 
something  which  was  not  bad.  Gouache  waited  for  her 
to  speak. 

"It  was  not  for  that  I  asked  you  to  come  with  me," 
she  said  at  last. 

"I  am  glad  I  said  it,"  replied  Gouache.  "I  am  going 
away  to-morrow,  and  it  might  never  have  been  said. 
You  asked  me  if  I  loved  her.  I  trust  you.  I  say,  yes, 
I  do.  I  am  going  to  say  good-bye  this  afternoon." 

"I  am  sorry  you  love  her.     Is  it  serious?" 

"Absolutely,  on  my  part.  Why  are  you  sorry?  Is 
there  anything  unnatural  in  it?" 

"  No,  on  the  contrary,  it  is  too  natural.  Our  lives  are 
unnatural.  You  cannot  marry  her.  It  seems  brutal  to 
tell  you  so,  but  you  must  know  it  already." 

"  There  was  once  a  little  boy  in  Paris,  Madame,  who 
did  not  have  enough  to  eat  every  day,  nor  enough  clothes 
when  the  north  wind  blew.  But  he  had  a  good  heart. 
His  name  was  Anastase  Gouache." 

"My  dear  friend,"  said  Corona,  kindly,  "the  atmos 
phere  of  Casa  Montevarchi  is  colder  than  the  north  wind. 
A  man  may  overcome  almost  anything  more  easily  than 
the  old-fashioned  prejudices  of  a  Eoman  prince." 

"  You  do  not  forbid  me  to  try?  " 

"Would  the  prohibition  make  any  difference?" 


SANT'  ILARIO.  53 

"I  am  not  sure."  Gouache  paused  and  looked  long  at 
the  princess.  "No,"  he  said  at  last,  "I  am  afraid  not." 

"In  that  case  I  can  only  say  one  thing.  You  are  a 
man  of  honour.  Do  your  best  not  to  make  her  uselessly 
unhappy.  Win  her  if  you  can,  by  any  fair  means.  But 
she  has  a  heart,  and  I  am  very  fond  of  the  child.  If  any 
harm  comes  to  her  I  shall  hold  you  responsible.  If  you 
love  her,  think  what  it  would  be  should  she  love  you 
and  be  married  to  another  man." 

A  shade  of  sadness  darkened  Corona's  brow,  as  she 
remembered  those  terrible  months  of  her  own  life. 
Gouache  knew  what  she  meant  and  was  silent  for  a  few 
moments. 

"  I  trust  you, "  said  she,  at  last.  "  And  since  you  are 
going  to-morrow,  God  bless  you.  You  are  going  in  a 
good  cause." 

She  held  out  her  hand  as  she  rose  to  leave  him,  and  he 
bent  over  it  and  touched  it  with  his  lips,  as  he  would 
have  kissed  the  hand  of  his  mother.  Then,  skirting  the 
little  assembly  of  people,  Anastase  went  back  towards 
the  piano,  in  search  of  Donna  Faustina.  He  found  her 
alone,  as  young  girls  are  generally  to  be  found  in  Roman 
drawing-rooms,  unless  there  are  two  of  them  present  to 
sit  together. 

"  What  have  you  been  talking  about  with  the  prin 
cess?"  asked  Donna  Faustina  when  Gouache  was  seated 
beside  her. 

"Could  you  see  from  here?"  asked  Gouache  instead 
of  answering.  "  I  thought  the  plants  would  have  hin 
dered  you." 

"  I  saw  you  kiss  her  hand  when  you  got  up,  and  so  I 
supposed  that  the  conversation  had  been  serious." 

"Less  serious  than  ours  must  be,"  replied  Anastase, 
sadly.  "  I  was  saying  good-bye  to  her,  and  now " 

"Good-bye?    Why ?"    Faustina  checked  herself 

and  looked  away  to  hide  her  pallor.     She  felt  cold,  and 
a  slight  shiver  passed  over  her  slender  figure. 

"I  am  going  to  the  front  to-morrow  morning." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  during  which  the  two  looked 
at  each  other  from  time  to  time,  neither  finding  courage 
to  speak.  Since  Gouache  had  been  in  the  room  it  had 
grown  dark,  and  as  yet  but  one  lamp  had  been  brought. 


54  SANT'  ILARIO. 

The  young  man's  eyes  sought  those  he  loved  in  the  dusk, 
and  as  his  hand  stole  out  it  met  another,  a  tender,  ner 
vous  hand,  trembling  with  emotion.  They  did  not  heed 
what  was  passing  near  them. 

As  though  their  silence  were  contagious,  the  conversa 
tion  died  away,  and  there  was  a  general  lull,  such  as 
sometimes  falls  upon  an  assemblage  of  people  who  have 
been  talking  for  some  time.  Then,  through  the  deep 
windows  there  came  up  a  sound  of  distant  uproar, 
mingled  with  occasional  sharp  detonations,  few  indeed, 
but  the  more  noticeable  for  their  rarity.  Suddenly  the 
door  of  the  drawing-room  burst  open,  and  a  servant's 
voice  was  heard  speaking  in  a  loud  key,  the  coarse  accents 
and  terrified  tone  contrasting  strangely  with  the  sounds 
generally  heard  in  such  a  place. 

"Excellency!  Excellency!  The  revolution!  Gari 
baldi  is  at  the  gates !  The  Italians  are  coming !  Ma 
donna  !  Madonna !  The  revolution,  Eccellenza  mia  I " 

The  man  was  mad  with  fear.  Every  one  spoke  at 
once.  Some  laughed,  thinking  the  man  crazy.  Others, 
who  had  heard  the  distant  noise  from  the  streets,  drew 
back  and  looked  nervously  towards  the  door.  Then 
Sant'  Ilario's  clear,  strong  voice,  rang  like  a  clarion 
through  the  room. 

"Bar  the  gates.  Shut  the  blinds  all  over  the  house  — 
it  is  of  no  use  to  let  them  break  good  windows.  Don't 
stand  there  shivering  like  a  fool.  It  is  only  a  mob." 

Before  he  had  finished  speaking,  San  Giacinto  was 
calmly  bolting  the  blinds  of  the  drawing-room  windows, 
fastening  each  one  as  steadily  and  securely  as  he  had 
been  wont  to  put  up  the  shutters  of  his  inn  at  Aquila  in 
the  old  days. 

In  the  dusky  corner  by  the  piano  Gouache  and  Faustina 
were  overlooked  in  the  general  confusion.  There  was  no 
time  for  reflection,  for  at  the  first  words  of  the  servant 
Anastase  knew  that  he  must  go  instantly  to  his  post. 
Faustina's  little  hand  was  still  clasped  in  his,  as  they 
both  sprang  to  their  feet.  Then  with  a  sudden  movement 
he  clasped  her  in  his  arms  and  kissed  her  passionately. 

"  Good-bye  —  my  beloved ! " 

The  girl's  arms  were  twined  closely  about  him,  and 
her  eyes  looked  up  to  his  with  a  wild  entreaty. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  55 

"  You  are  safe  here,  my  darling  —  good-bye ! " 

"  Where  are  you  going?  " 

"  To  the  Serristori  barracks.  God  keep  you  safe  till 
I  come  back  —  good-bye ! " 

"I  will  go  with  you,"  said  Faustina,  with  a  strange 
look  of  determination  in  her  angelic  face. 

Gouache  smiled,  even  then,  at  the  mad  thought  which 
presented  itself  to  the  girl's  mind.  Once  more  he  kissed 
her,  and  then,  she  knew  not  how,  he  was  gone.  Other 
persons  had  come  near  them,  shutting  the  windows 
rapidly,  one  after  the  other,  in  anticipation  of  danger 
from  without.  With  instinctive  modesty  Faustina  with 
drew  her  arms  from  the  young  man's  neck  and  shrank 
back.  In  that  moment  he  disappeared  in  the  crowd. 

Faustina  stared  wildly  about  her  for  a  few  seconds, 
confused  and  stunned  by  the  suddenness  of  what  had 
passed,  above  all  by  the  thought  that  the  man  she  loved 
was  gone  from  her  side  to  meet  his  death.  Then  with 
out  hesitation  she  left  the  room.  No  one  hindered  her, 
for  the  Saracinesca  men  were  gone  to  see  to  the  defences 
of  the  house,  and  Corona  was  already  by  the  cradle  of 
her  child.  No  one  noticed  the  slight  figure  as  it  slipped 
through  the  door  and  was  gone  in  the  darkness  of  the 
unlighted  halls.  All  was  confusion  and  noise  and  flash 
ing  of  passing  lights  as  the  servants  hurried  about,  try 
ing  to  obey  orders  in  spite  of  their  terror.  Faustina 
glided  like  a  shadow  down  the  vast  staircase,  slipped 
through  one  of  the  gates  just  as  the  bewildered  porter 
was  about  to  close  it,  and  in  a  moment  was  out  in  the 
midst  of  the  multitude  that  thronged  the  dim  streets  — 
a  mere  child  and  alone,  facing  a  revolution  in  the  dark. 


CHAPTER   V. 

Gouache  made  his  way  as  fast  as  he  could  to  the  bridge 
of  Sant'  Angelo,  but  his  progress  was  constantly  impeded 
by  moving  crowds  —  bodies  of  men,  women,  and  children 
rushing  frantically  together  at  the  corners  of  the  streets 


56  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

and  then  surging  onward  in  the  direction  of  the  resultant 
produced  by  their  combined  forces  in  the  shock.  There 
was  loud  and  incoherent  screaming  of  women  and  shout 
ing  of  men,  out  of  which  occasionally  a  few  words  could 
be  distinguished,  more  often  "Viva  Pio  Nono!"  or 
"  Viva  la  Repubblica ! "  than  anything  else.  The  scene 
of  confusion  baffled  description.  A  company  of  infantry 
was  filing  out  of  the  castle  of  Sant'  Angelo  on  to  the 
bridge,  where  it  wras  met  by  a  dense  multitude  of  people 
coming  from  the  opposite  direction.  A  squadron  of 
mounted  gendarmes  came  up  from  the  Borgo  Nuovo  at 
the  same  moment,  and  half  a  dozen  cabs  were  jammed 
in  between  the  opposing  masses  of  the  soldiers  and  the 
people.  The  officer  at  the  head  of  the  column  of  foot- 
soldiers  loudly  urged  the  crowd  to  make  way,  and  the 
latter,  consisting  chiefly  of  peaceable  but  terrified  citi 
zens,  attempted  to  draw  back,  while  the  weight  of  those 
behind  pushed  them  on.  Gouache,  who  was  in  the  front 
of  the  throng,  was  allowed  to  enter  the  file  of  infantry,  in 
virtue  of  his  uniform,  and  attempted  to  get  through  and 
make  his  way  to  the  opposite  bank.  But  with  the  best 
efforts  he  soon  found  himself  unable  to  move,  the  sol 
diers  being  wedged  together  as  tightly  as  the  people. 
Presently  the  crowd  in  the  piazza  seemed  to  give  way 
and  the  column  began  to  advance  again,  bearing  Gouache 
backwards  in  the  direction  he  had  come.  He  managed 
to  get  to  the  parapet,  however,  by  edging  sideways 
through  the  packed  ranks. 

"  Give  me  your  shoulder,  comrade ! "  he  shouted  to  the 
man  next  to  him.  The  fellow  braced  himself,  and  in  an 
instant  the  agile  Zouave  was  on  the  narrow  parapet, 
running  along  as  nimbly  as  a  cat,  and  winding  himself 
past  the  huge  statues  at  every  half-dozen  steps.  He 
jumped  down  at  the  other  end  and  ran  for  the  Borgo 
Santo  Spirito  at  the  top  of  his  speed.  The  broad  space 
was  almost  deserted  and  in  three  minutes  he  was  before 
the  gates  of  the  barracks,  which  were  situated  on  the 
right-hand  side  of  the  street,  just  beyond  the  College  of 
the  Penitentiaries  and  opposite  the  church  of  San  Spirito 
in  Sassia. 

Meanwhile  Donna  Faustina  Montevarchi  was  alone  in 
the  streets.  In  desperate  emergencies  young  and  ner- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  57 

vously-organised  people  most  commonly  act  in  accord 
ance  with  the  dictates  of  the  predominant  passion  by 
which  they  are  influenced.  Very  generally  that  passion 
is  terror,  but  when  it  is  not,  it  is  almost  impossible  to 
calculate  the  consequences  which  may  follow.  When 
the  whole  being  is  dominated  by  love  and  by  the  greatest 
anxiety  for  the  safety  of  the  person  loved,  the  weakest 
woman  will  do  deeds  which  might  make  a  brave  man 
blush  for  his  courage.  This  was  precisely  Faustina's 
case. 

If  any  man  says  that  he  understands  women  he  is 
convicted  of  folly  by  his  own  speech,  seeing  that  they 
are  altogether  incomprehensible.  Of  men,  it  may  be 
sufficient  for  general  purposes  to  say  with  David  that 
they  are  all  liars,  even  though  we  allow  that  they  may 
be  all  curable  of  the  vice  of  falsehood.  Of  women, 
however,  there  is  no  general  statement  which  is  true. 
The  one  is  brave  to  heroism,  the  next  cowardly  in  a 
degree  fantastically  comic.  The  one  is  honest,  the  other 
faithless;  the  one  contemptible  in  her  narrowness  of 
soul,  the  next  supremely  noble  in  broad  truth  as  the 
angels  in  heaven;  the  one  trustful,  the  other  suspicious; 
this  one  gentle  as  a  dove,  that  one  grasping  and  venom 
ous  as  a  strong  serpent.  The  hearts  of  women  are  as 
the  streets  of  a  great  town  —  some  broad  and  straight 
and  clean;  some  dim  and  narrow  and  winding;  or  as  the 
edifices  and  buildings  of  that  same  city,  wherein  there 
are  holy  temples,  at  which  men  worship  in  calm  and 
peace,  and  dens  where  men  gamble  away  the  souls  given 
them  by  God  against  the  living  death  they  call  pleasure, 
which  is  doled  out  to  them  by  the  devil ;  in  which  there 
are  quiet  dwellings,  and  noisy  places  of  public  gathering, 
fair  palaces  and  loathsome  charnel-houses,  where  the 
dead  are  heaped  together,  even  as  our  dead  sins  lie 
ghastly  and  unburied  in  that  dark  chamber  of  the  soul, 
whose  gates  open  of  their  own  selves  and  shall  not  be 
sealed  while  there  is  life  in  us  to  suffer.  Dost  thou 
boast  that  thou  knowest  the  heart  of  woman?  Go  to, 
thou  more  than  fool !  The  heart  of  woman  containeth 
all  things,  good  and  evil;  and  knowest  thou  then  all 
that  is? 

Donna  Faustina  was  no  angel.     She  had  not  that  lofty 


58  SANT'  ILARIO. 

calmness  which  we  attribute  to  the  angelic  character. 
She  was  very  young,  utterly  inexperienced  and  ignorant 
of  the  world.  The  idea  which  over-towers  all  other  ideas 
was  the  first  which  had  taken  hold  upon  her,  and  under 
its  strength  she  was  like  a  flower  before  the  wind.  She 
was  not  naturally  of  the  heroic  type  either,  as  Corona 
d'Astrardente  had  been,  and  perhaps  was  still,  capable 
of  sacrifice  for  the  ideal  of  duty,  able  to  suffer  torment 
rather  than  debase  herself  by  yielding,  strong  to  stem 
the  torrent  of  a  great  passion  until  she  had  the  right  to 
abandon  herself  to  its  mighty  flood.  Faustina  was  a 
younger  and  a  gentler  woman,  not  knowing  what  she  did 
from  the  moment  her  heart  began  to  dictate  her  actions, 
willing,  above  all,  to  take  the  suggestion  of  her  soul  as  a 
command,  and,  because  she  knew  no  evil,  rejoicing  in 
an  abandonment  which  might  well  have  terrified  one  who 
knew  the  world. 

She  already  loved  Anastase  intensely.  Under  the 
circumstances  of  his  farewell,  the  startling  effect  of 
the  announcement  of  a  revolution,  the  necessity  under 
which,  as  a  soldier,  he  found  himself  of  leaving  her 
instantly  in  order  to  face  a  real  danger,  with  his  first 
kiss  warm  upon  her  lips,  and  with  the  frightful  convic 
tion  that  if  he  left  her  it  might  be  the  last  —  under  all 
the  emotions  brought  about  by  these  things,  half  mad 
with  love  and  anxiety,  it  was  not  altogether  wonderful 
that  she  acted  as  she  did.  She  could  not  have  explained 
it,  for  the  impulse  was  so  instinctive  that  she  did  not 
comprehend  it,  and  the  deed  followed  so  quickly  upon 
the  thought  that  there  was  no  time  for  reflection.  She 
fled  from  the  room  and  from  the  palace,  out  into  the 
street,  wholly  unconscious  of  danger,  like  a  creature  in 
a  dream. 

The  crowd  which  had  impeded  Gouache's  progress  was 
already  thinning  when  Faustina  reached  the  pavement. 
She  was  born  and  bred  in  Eome,  and  as  a  child,  before 
the  convent  days,  had  been  taken  to  walk  many  a  time 
in  the  neighbourhood  of  Saint  Peter's.  She  knew  well 
enough  where  the  Serristori  barracks  were  situated,  and 
turned  at  once  towards  Sant'  Angelo.  There  were  still 
many  people  about,  most  of  them  either  hurrying  in  the 
direction  whence  the  departing  uproar  still  proceeded. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  59 

or  running  homewards  to  get  out  of  danger.  Few  noticed 
her,  and  for  some  time  no  one  hindered  her  progress, 
though  it  was  a  strange  sight  to  see  a  fair  young  girl, 
dressed  in  the  fashion  of  the  time  which  so  completely 
distinguished  her  from  Eoman  women  of  lower  station, 
running  at  breathless  speed  through  the  dusky  streets. 

Suddenly  she  lost  her  way.  Coming  down  the  Via  de' 
Coronari  she  turned  too  soon  to  the  right  and  found 
herself  in  the  confusing  byways  which  form  a  small 
labyrinth  around  the  church  of  San  Salvatore  in  Lauro. 
She  had  entered  a  blind  alley  on  the  left  when  she  ran 
against  two  men,  who  unexpectedly  emerged  from  one  of 
those  underground  wine-shops  which  are  numerous  in 
that  neighbourhood.  They  were  talking  in  low  and 
earnest  tones,  and  one  of  them  staggered  backward  as 
the  young  girl  rushed  upon  him  in  the  dark.  Instinc 
tively  the  man  grasped  her  and  held  her  tightly  by  the 
arms. 

"Where  are  you  running  to,  my  beauty?"  he  asked, 
as  she  struggled  to  get  away. 

"  Oh,  let  me  go !  let  me  go ! "  she  cried  in  agonised 
tones,  twisting  her  slender  wrists  in  his  firm  grip.  The 
other  man  stood  by,  watching  the  scene. 

"Better  let  her  go,  Peppino,"  he  said.  "Don't  you 
see  she  is  a  lady?" 

"A  lady,  eh?"  echoed  the  other.  "Where  are  you 
going  to,  with  that  angel's  face?" 

"To  the  Serristori  barrack,"  answered  Faustina,  still 
struggling  with  all  her  might. 

At  this  announcement  both  men  laughed  loudly  and 
glanced  quickly  at  each  other.  They  seemed  to  think 
the  answer  a  very  good  joke. 

"  If  that  is  all,  you  may  go,  and  the  devil  accompany 
you.  What  say  you,  Gaetano?"  Then  they  laughed 
again. 

"  Take  that  chain  and  brooch  as  a  ricorclo  —  just  for  a 
souvenir,"  said  Gaetano,  who  then  himself  tore  off  the 
ornaments  while  the  other  held  Faustina's  hands. 

"  You  are  a  pretty  girl  indeed ! "  he  cried,  looking  at 
her  pale  face  in  the  light  o'f  the  filthy  little  red  lamp 
that  hung  over  the  low  door  of  the  wine-shop.  "  I  never 
kissed  a  lady  in  my  life." 


60  SANT'  ILARIO. 

With  that  he  grasped  her  delicate  chin  in  his  foul  hand 
and  bent  down,  bringing  his  grimy  face  close  to  hers. 
But  this  was  too  much.  Though  Faustina  had  hitherto 
fought  with  all  her  natural  strength  against  the  ruffians, 
there  was  a  reserved  force,  almost  superhuman,  in  her 
slight  frame,  which  was  suddenly  roused  by  the  threat 
ened  outrage.  With  a  piercing  shriek  she  sprang 
backwards  and  dashed  herself  free,  sending  the  two 
blackguards  reeling  into  the  darkness.  Then,  like  a 
flash  she  was  gone.  By  chance  she  took  the  right  turn 
ing  and  in  a  moment  more  found  herself  in  the  Via  di 
Tordinona,  just  opposite  the  entrance  of  the  Apollo 
theatre.  The  torn  white  handbills  on  the  wall,  and  the 
projecting  shed  over  the  doors  told  her  where  she  was. 

By  this  time  the  soldiers  who  had  intercepted  Gou 
ache's  passage  across  the  bridge,  as  well  as  the  dense 
crowd,  had  disappeared,  and  Faustina  ran  like  the  wind 
along  the  pavement  it  had  taken  the  soldier  so  long  to 
traverse.  Like  a  flitting  bird  she  sped  over  the  broad 
space  beyond  and  up  the  Borgo  Nuovo,  past  the  long  low 
hospital,  wherein  the  sick  and  dying  lay  in  their  silence, 
tended  by  the  patient  Sisters  of  Mercy,  while  all  was  in 
excitement  without.  The  young  girl  ran  past  the  corner. 
A  Zouave  was  running  before  her  towards  the  gate  of  the 
barrack  where  a  sentinel  stood  motionless  under  the  lamp, 
his  gray  hood  drawn  over  his  head  and  his  rifle  erect  by 
his  shoulder. 

At  that  instant  a  terrific  explosion  rent  the  air,  fol 
lowed  a  moment  later  by  the  dull  crash  of  falling  frag 
ments  of  masonry,  and  then  by  a  long  thundering, 
rumbling  sound,  dreadful  to  hear,  which  lasted  several 
minutes,  as  the  ruins  continued  to  fall  in,  heaps  upon 
heaps,  sending  immense  clouds  of  thick  dust  up  into  the 
night  air.  Then  all  was  still. 

The  little  piazza  before  San  Spirito  in  Sassia  was  half 
filled  with  masses  of  stone  and  brickwork  and  crumbling 
mortar.  A  young  girl  lay  motionless  upon  her  face  at 
the  corner  of  the  hospital,  her  white  hands  stretched  out 
towards  the  man  who  lay  dead  but  a  few  feet  before  her, 
crushed  under  a  great  irregular  mound  of  stones  and 
rubbish.  Beneath  the  central  heap  where  the  barracks 
had  stood  lay  the  bodies  of  the  poor  Zouaves,  deep 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  61 

buried  in  wreck  of  the  main  building,  the  greater  part  of 
which  had  fallen  across  the  side  street  that  passes  be 
tween  the  Penitenzieri  and  the  Serristori.  All  was  still 
for  many  minutes,  while  the  soft  light  streamed  from 
the  high  windows  of  the  hospital  and  faintly  illuminated 
some  portion  of  the  hideous  scene. 

Very  slowly  a  few  stragglers  came  in  sight,  then  more, 
and  then  by  degrees  a  great  dark  crowd  of  awestruck 
people  were  collected  together  and  stood  afar  off,  fearing 
to  come  near,  lest  the  ruins  should  still  continue  falling. 
Presently  the  door  of  the  hospital  opened  and  a  party  of 
men  in  gray  blouses,  headed  by  three  or  four  gentlemen 
in  black  coats  —  one  indeed  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves  — 
emerged  into  the  silent  street  and  went  straight  towards 
the  scene  of  the  disaster.  They  carried  lanterns  and  a 
couple  of  stretchers  such  as  are  used  for  bearing  the 
wounded.  It  chanced  that  the  straight  line  they  fol 
lowed  from  the  door  did  not  lead  them  to  where  the  girl 
was  lying,  and  it  was  not  until  after  a  long  and  nearly 
fruitless  search  that  they  turned  back.  Two  soldiers 
only,  and  both  dead,  could  they  find  to  bring  back.  The 
rest  were  buried  far  beneath,  and  it  would  be  the  work 
of  many  hours  to  extricate  the  bodies,  even  with  a  large 
force  of  men. 

As  the  little  procession  turned  sadly  back,  they  found 
that  the  crowd  had  advanced  cautiously  forward  and  now 
filled  the  street.  In  the  foremost  rank  a  little  circle 
stood  about  a  dark  object  that  lay  on  the  ground,  curious, 
but  too  timid  to  touch  it. 

"Signer  Professore,"  said  one  man  in  a  low  voice, 
"there  is  a  dead  woman." 

The  physicians  came  forward  and  bent  over  the  body. 
One  of  them  shook  his  head,  as  the  bright  light  of  the 
lantern  fell  on  her  face  while  he  raised  the  girl  from  the 
ground. 

"  She  is  a  lady,"  said  one  of  the  others  in  a  low  voice. 

The  men  brought  a  stretcher  and  lifted  the  girl's  body 
gently  from  the  ground,  scarcely  daring  to  touch  her,  and 
gazing  anxiously  but  yet  in  wonder  at  the  white  face. 

When  she  was  laid  upon  the  coarse  canvas  there  was 
a  moment's  pause.  The  crowd  pressed  closely  about  the 
hospital  men,  and  the  yellow  light  of  the  lanterns  was 


62  SANT'  ILARIO. 

reflected  on  many  strange  faces,  all  bent  eagerly  forward 
and  down  to  get  a  last  sight  of  the  dead  girl's  features. 

"  Andiamo,"  said  one  of  the  physicians  ID  a  quiet  sad 
voice.  The  bearers  took  up  the  dead  Zouaves  again,  the 
procession  of  death  entered  the  gates  of  the  hospital, 
and  the  heavy  doors  closed  behind  like  the  portals  of  a 
tomb. 

The  crowd  closed  again  and  pressed  forward  to  the 
ruins.  A  few  gendarmes  had  come  up,  and  very  soon  a 
party  of  labourers  was  at  work  clearing  away  the  lighter 
rubbish  under  the  lurid  glare  of  pitch  torches  stuck  into 
the  crevices  and  cracks  of  the  rent  walls.  The  devilish 
deed  was  done,  but  by  a  providential  accident  its  conse 
quences  had  been  less  awful  than  might  have  been  antic 
ipated.  Only  one-third  of  the  mine  had  actually 
exploded,  and  only  thirty  Zouaves  were  at  the  time 
within  the  building. 

"  Did  you  see  her  face,  Gaetano?"  asked  a  rough  fel 
low  of  his  companion.  They  stood  together  in  a  dark 
corner  a  little  aloof  from  the  throng  of  people. 

"No,  but  it  must  have  been  she.  I  am  glad  I  have  not 
that  sin  on  my  soul." 

"  You  are  a  fool,  Gaetano.  What  is  a  girl  to  a  couple 
of  hundred  soldiers?  Besides,  if  you  had  held  her  tight 
she  would  not  have  got  here  in  time  to  be  killed." 

"  Eh  —  but  a  girl !  The  other  vagabonds  at  least,  we 
have  despatched  in  a  good  cause.  Viva  la  liberta!  " 

"  Hush !     There  are  the  gendarmes !     This  way ! '; 

So  they  disappeared  into  the  darkness  whence  they 
had  come. 

It  was  not  only  in  the  Borgo  Nuovo  that  there  was 
confusion  and  consternation.  The  first  signal  for  the 
outbreak  had  been  given  in  the  Piazza  Colonna,  where 
bombs  had  been  exploded.  Attacks  were  made  upon  the 
prisons  by  bands  of  those  sinister-looking,  unknown  men, 
who  for  several  days  had  been  noticed  in  various  parts 
of  the  city.  A  compact  mob  invaded  the  capitol,  armed 
with  better  weapons  than  mobs  generally  find  ready  to 
their  hands.  At  the  Porta  San  Paolo,  which  was  rightly 
judged  to  be  one  of  the  weakest  points  of  the  city,  a 
furious  attack  was  made  from  without  by  a  band  of  Gari- 
baldians  who  had  crept  up  near  the  walls  in  various  dis- 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  63 

guises  during  the  last  two  days.  More  than  one  of  the 
barracks  within  the  city  were  assaulted  simultaneously, 
and  for  a  short  time  companies  of  men  paraded  the  streets, 
shouting  their  cries  of  "  Viva  Garibaldi,  Viva  la  liberta !  " 
A  few  cried  "  Viva  Vittorio !  "  and  "  Viva  1' Italia !  "  But 
a  calm  observer  —  and  there  were  many  such  in  Rome 
that  night  —  could  easily  see  that  the  demonstration  was 
rather  in  favour  of  an  anarchic  republic  than  of  the 
Italian  monarchy.  On  the  whole,  the  population  showed 
no  sympathy  with  the  insurrection.  It  is  enough  to  say 
that  this  tiny  revolution  broke  out  at  dusk  and  was  en 
tirely  quelled  before  nine  o'clock  of  the  same  evening. 
The  attempts  made  were  bold  and  desperate  in  many 
cases,  but  were  supported  by  a  small  body  of  men  only, 
the  populace  taking  no  active  part  in  what  was  done. 
Had  a  real  sympathy  existed  between  the  lower  classes 
of  Romans  and  the  Garibaldians  the  result  could  not  have 
been  doubtful,  for  the  vigour  and  energy  displayed  by  the 
rioters  would  inevitably  have  attracted  any  similarly 
disposed  crowd  to  join  in  a  fray,  when  the  weight  of  a 
few  hundreds  more  would  have  turned  the  scale  at  any 
point.  There  was  not  a  French  soldier  in  the  city  at  the 
time,  and  of  the  Zouaves  and  native  troops  a  very  large 
part  were  employed  upon  the  frontier.  Rome  was  saved 
and  restored  to  order  by  a  handful  of  soldiers,  who  were 
obliged  to  act  at  many  points  simultaneously,  and  the 
insignificance  of  the  original  movement  may  be  deter 
mined  from  this  fact. 

It  is  true  that  of  the  two  infernal  schemes,  plotted  at 
once  to  destroy  the  troops  in  a  body  and  to  strike  terror 
into  the  inhabitants,  one  failed  in  part  and  the  other 
altogether.  If  the  whole  of  the  gunpowder  which  Giu 
seppe  Monti  and  Gaetano  Tognetti  had  placed  in  the 
mine  under  the  Serristori  barracks  had  exploded,  instead 
of  only  one-third  of  the  quantity,  a  considerable  part  of 
the  Borgo  ISTuovo  would  have  been  destroyed;  and  even 
the  disaster  which  actually  occurred  would  have  killed 
many  hundreds  of  Zouaves  if  these  had  chanced  to  be 
indoors  at  the  time.  But  it  is  impossible  to  calculate 
the  damage  and  loss  of  life  which  would  have  been 
recorded  had  the  castle  of  Sant'  Angelo  and  the  adjacent 
fortifications  been  blown  into  the  air.  A  huge  mine  had 


64  SANT'  ILARIO. 

been  laid  and  arranged  for  firing  in  the  vaults  of  one  of 
the  bastions,  but  the  plot  was  betrayed  at  the  very  last 
moment  by  one  of  the  conspirators.  I  may  add  that 
these  men,  who  were  tried,  and  condemned  only  to  penal 
servitude,  were  liberated  in  1870,  three  years  later,  by 
the  Italian  Government,  on  the  ground  that  they  were 
merely  political  prisoners.  The  attempt  in  which  they 
had  been  engaged  would,  however,  even  in  time  of  de 
clared  war,  have  been  regarded  as  a  crime  against  the 
law  of  nations. 

Rome  was  immediately  declared  under  a  state  of  siege, 
and  patrols  of  troops  began  to  parade  the  streets,  send 
ing  all  stragglers  whom  they  met  to  their  homes,  on  the 
admirable  principle  that  it  is  the  duty  of  every  man  who 
finds  himself  in  a  riotous  crowd  to  leave  it  instantly 
unless  he  can  do  something  towards  restoring  order. 
Persons  who  found  themselves  in  other  people's  houses, 
however,  had  some  difficulty  in  at  once  returning  to  their 
own,  and  as  it  has  been  seen  that  the  disturbance  began 
precisely  at  the  time  selected  by  society  for  holding  its 
confabulations,  there  were  many  who  found  themselves 
in  that  awkward  situation. 

As  the  sounds  in  the  street  subsided,  the  excitement 
in  the  drawing-room  at  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca  dimin 
ished  likewise.  Several  of  those  present  announced 
their  intention  of  departing  at  once,  but  to  this  the  old 
prince  made  serious  objections.  The  city  was  not  safe, 
he  said.  Carriages  might  be  stopped  at  any  moment, 
and  even  if  that  did  not  occur,  all  sorts  of  accidents 
might  arise  from  the  horses  shying  at  the  noises,  or  run 
ning  over  people  in  the  crowds.  He  had  his  own  views, 
and  as  he  was  in  his  own  house  it  was  not  easy  to  dispute 
them. 

"  The  gates  are  shut, "  he  said,  with  a  cheerful  laugh, 
"  and  none  of  you  can  get  out  at  present.  As  it  is  nearly 
dinner-time  you  must  all  dine  with  me.  It  will  not  be 
a  banquet,  but  I  can  give  you  something  to  eat.  I  hope 
nobody  is  gone  already." 

Every  one,  at  these  words,  looked  at  everybody  else, 
as  though  to  see  whether  any  one  were  missing. 

"  I  saw  Monsieur  Gouache  go  out, "  said  Flavia  Monte- 
varchi. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  65 

"Poor  fellow!"  exclaimed  the  princess,  her  mother. 
"I  hope  nothing  will  happen  to  him!"  She  paused  a 
moment  and  looked  anxiously  round  the  room.  "Good 
Heavens !  "  she  cried  suddenly,  "  where  is  Faustina?  " 

"  She  must  have  gone  out  of  the  room  with  my  wife, " 
said  Sant'  Ilario,  quietly.  "I  will  go  and  see." 

The  princess  thought  this  explanation  perfectly  natural 
and  waited  till  he  should  return.  He  did  not  come  back, 
however,  so  soon  as  might  have  been  expected.  He  found 
his  wife  just  leaving  the  nursery.  Her  first  impulse  had 
been  to  go  to  the  child,  and  having  satisfied  herself  that 
he  had  not  been  carried  off  by  a  band  of  Garibaldians  but 
was  sound  asleep  in  his  cradle,  she  was  about  to  rejoin 
her  guests. 

"Where  is  Faustina  Montevarchi?"  asked  Giovanni, 
as  though  it  were  the  most  natural  question  in  the 
world. 

"Faustina?"  repeated  Corona.  "In  the  drawing- 
room,  to  be  sure.  I  have  not  seen  her." 

"  She  is  not  there,"  said  Sant'  Ilario,  in  a  more  anxious 
tone.  "I  thought  she  had  come  here  with  you." 

"  She  must  be  with  the  rest.  You  have  overlooked  her 
in  the  crowd.  Come  back  with  me  and  see  your  son  — 
he  does  not  seem  to  rnind  revolution  in  the  least!  " 

Giovanni,  who  had  no  real  doubt  but  that  Faustina 
was  in  the  house,  entered  the  nursery  with  his  wife,  and 
they  stood  together  by  the  child's  cradle. 

"Is  he  not  beautiful?"  exclaimed  Corona,  passing  her 
arm  affectionately  through  her  husband's,  and  leaning 
her  cheek  on  his  shoulder. 

"He  is  a  fine  baby,"  replied  Giovanni,  his  voice  ex 
pressing  more  satisfaction  than  his  words.  "He  will 
look  like  my  father  when  he  grows  up." 

"  I  would  rather  he  should  look  like  you,"  said  Corona. 

"  If  he  could  look  like  you,  dear,  there  would  be  some 
use  in  wishing." 

Then  they  both  gazed  for  some  seconds  at  the  swarthy 
little  boy,  who  lay  on  his  pillows,  his  arms  thrown  back 
above  his  head  and  his  two  little  fists  tightly  clenched. 
The  rich  blood  softly  coloured  the  child's  dark  cheeks, 
and  the  black  lashes,  already  long,  like  his  mother's, 
gave  a  singularly  expressive  look  to  the  small  face. 


66  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Giovanni  tenderly  kissed  his  wife  and  then  they  softly 
left  the  room.  As  soon  as  they  were  outside  Sant'  Ila- 
rio's  thoughts  returned  to  Faustina. 

"  She  was  certainly  not  in  the  drawing-room,"  he  said, 
"  I  am  quite  sure.  It  was  her  mother  who  asked  for  her 
and  everybody  heard  the  question.  I  dare  not  go  back 
without  her." 

They  stopped  together  in  the  corridor,  looking  at  each 
other  with  grave  faces. 

"  This  is  very  serious,"  said  Corona.  "  We  must  search 
the  house.  Send  the  men.  I  will  tell  the  women.  We 
will  meet  at  the  head  of  the  stairs." 

Five  minutes  later,  Giovanni  returned  in  pursuit  of  his 
wife. 

"She  has  left  the  house,"  he  said,  breathlessly.  "The 
porter  saw  her  go  out." 

"Good  Heavens!  Why  did  he  not  stop  her?"  cried 
Corona. 

"  Because  he  is  a  fool ! "  answered  Sant'  Ilario,  very 
pale  in  his  anxiety.  "  She  must  have  lost  her  head  and 
gone  home.  I  will  tell  her  mother." 

When  it  was  known  in  the  drawing-room  that  Donna 
Faustina  Montevarchi  had  left  the  palace  alone  and  on 
foot  every  one  was  horrorstruck.  The  princess  turned 
as  white  as  death,  though  she  was  usually  very  red  in 
the  face.  She  was  a  brave  woman,  however,  and  did  not 
waste  words. 

•"I  must  go  home  at  once,"  said  she.  "Please  order 
my  carriage  and  have  the  gates  opened." 

Giovanni  obeyed  silently,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the 
princess  was  descending  the  stairs,  accompanied  by 
Flavia,  who  was  silent,  a  phenomenon  seldom  to  be 
recorded  in  connection  with  that  vivacious  young  lady. 
Giovanni  went  also,  and  his  cousin,  San  Giacinto. 

"  If  you  will  permit  me,  princess,  I  will  go  with  you, " 
said  the  latter  as  they  all  reached  the  carriage.  "  I  may 
be  of  some  use." 

Just  as  they  rolled  out  of  the  deep  archway,  the  explo 
sion  of  the  barracks  rent  the  air,  the  tremendous  crash 
thundering  and  echoing  through  the  city.  The  panes  of 
the  carriage-windows  rattled  as  though  they  would  break, 
and  all  Eome  was  silent  while  one  might  count  a  score. 


SANT*   ILARIO.  67 

Then  the  horses  plunged  wildly  in  the  traces  and  the 
vehicle  struck  heavily  against  one  of  the  stone  pillars 
which  stood  before  the  entrance  of  the  palace.  The  four 
persons  inside  could  hear  the  coachman  shouting. 

"  Drive  on ! "  cried  San  Giacinto,  thrusting  his  head 
out  of  the  window. 

"  Eccellenza "  began  the  man  in  a  tone  of  expos 
tulation. 

"  Drive  on ! "  shouted  San  Giacinto,  in  a  voice  that 
made  the  fellow  obey  in  spite  of  his  terror.  He  had 
never  heard  such  a  voice  before,  so  deep,  so  strong  and 
so  savage. 

They  reached  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi  without  en 
countering  any  serious  obstacle.  In  a  few  minutes  they 
were  convinced  that  Donna  Faustina  had  not  been  heard 
of  there,  and  a  council  was  held  upon  the  stairs.  Whilst 
they  were  deliberating,  Prince  Montevarchi  came  out,  and 
with  him  his  eldest  son,  Bellegra,  a  handsome  man  about 
thirty  years  old,  with  blue  eyes  and  a  perfectly  smooth 
fair  beard.  He  was  more  calm  than  his  father,  who 
spoke  excitedly,  with  many  gesticulations. 

"  You  have  lost  Faustina !  "  cried  the  old  man  in  wild 
tones.  "  You  have  lost  Faustina !  And  in  such  times  as 
these!  Why  do  you  stand  there?  Oh,  my  daughter !  my 
daughter !  I  have  so  often  told  you  to  be  careful,  Guen- 
dalina  —  move,  in  the  name  of  God  —  the  child  is  lost, 
lost,  I  tell  you!  Have  you  no  heart?  no  feeling?  Are 
you  a  mother?  Signori  miei,  I  am  desperate!  " 

And  indeed  he  seemed  to  be,  as  he  stood  wringing  his 
hands,  stamping  his  feet,  and  vociferating  incoherently, 
while  the  tears  began  to  floAV  down  his  cheeks. 

"  We  are  going  in  search  of  your  daughter,"  said  Sant' 
Ilario.  "Pray  calm  yourself.  She  will  certainly  be 
found." 

"Perhaps  I  had  better  go  too,"  suggested  Ascanio  Bel 
legra,  rather  timidly.  But  his  father  threw  his  arms 
round  him  and  held  him  tightly. 

"  Do  you  think  I  will  lose  another  child?  "  he  cried. 
"  No,  no,  no  — figlio  mio  —  you  shall  never  go  out  into  the 
midst  of  a  revolution." 

Sant'  Ilario  looked  on  gravely,  though  he  inwardly 
despised  the  poor  old  man  for  his  weakness.  San  Gia- 


68  SANT'  ILARIO. 

cinto  stood  against  the  wall,  waiting,  with  a  grim  smile 
of  amusement  on  his  face.  He  was  measuring  Ascanio 
Bellegra  with  his  eye  and  thought  he  would  not  care  for 
his  assistance.  The  princess  looked  scornfully  at  her 
husband  and  son. 

"We  are  losing  time,"  said  Sant'  Ilario  at  last  to  his 
cousin.  "  I  promise  you  to  bring  you  your  daughter, " 
he  added  gravely,  turning  to  the  princess.  Then  the 
two  went  away  together,  leaving  Prince  Montevarchi 
still  lamenting  himself  to  his  wife  and  son.  Flavia  had 
taken  no  part  in  the  conversation,  having  entered  the 
hall  and  gone  to  her  room  at  once. 

The  cousins  left  the  palace  together  and  walked  a 
little  way  down  the  street,  before  either  spoke.  Then 
Sant'  Ilario  stopped  short. 

"  Does  it  strike  you  that  we  have  undertaken  rather  a 
difficult  mission?  "  he  asked. 

"  A  very  difficult  one, "  answered  San  Giacinto. 

"  Koine  is  not  the  largest  city  in  the  world,  but  I  have 
not  the  slightest  idea  where  to  look  for  that  child.  She 
certainly  left  our  house.  She  certainly  has  not  returned 
to  her  own.  Between  the  two,  practically,  there  lies  the 
whole  of  Rome.  I  think  the  best  thing  to  do,  will  be  to 
go  to  the  police,  if  any  of  them  can  be  found. " 

"Or  to  the  Zouaves,"  said  San  Giacinto. 

"Why  to  the  Zouaves?     I  do  not  understand  you." 

"  You  are  all  so  accustomed  to  being  princes  that  you 
do  not  watch  each  other.  I  have  done  nothing  but  watch 
you  all  the  time.  That  young  lady  is  in  love  with  Mon 
sieur  Gouache." 

"  Really ! "  exclaimed  Sant'  Ilario,  to  whom  the  idea 
was  as  novel  and  incredible  as  it  could  have  been  to  old 
Montevarchi  himself,  "really,  you  must  be  mistaken. 
The  thing  is  impossible." 

"Not  at  all.  That  young  man  took  Donna  Faustina's 
hand  and  held  it  for  some  time  there  by  the  piano  while 
I  was  shutting  the  windows  in  your  drawing-room." 
San  Giacinto  did  not  tell  all  he  had  seen. 

"What?"  cried  Sant'  Ilario.  "You  are  mad  —  it  is 
impossible ! " 

"  On  the  contrary,  I  saw  it.  A  moment  later  Gouache 
left  the  room.  Donna  Faustina  must  have  gone  just 
after  him.  It  is  my  opinion  that  she  followed  him." 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  69 

Before  Sant'  Ilario  could  answer,  a  small  patrol  of 
foot-gendarmes  came  up,  and  peremptorily  ordered  the 
two  gentlemen  to  go  home.  Sant'  Ilario  addressed  the 
corporal  in  charge.  He  stated  his  name  and  that  of  his 
cousin. 

"A  lady  has  been  lost,"  he  then  said.  "She  is  Donna 
Faustina  Montevarchi  —  a  young  lady,  very  fair  and 
beautiful.  She  left  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca  alone  and 
on  foot  half  an  hour  ago  and  has  not  been  heard  of.  Be 
good  enough  to  inform  the  police  you  meet  of  this  fact 
and  to  say  that  a  large  reward  will  be  paid  to  any  one 
who  brings  her  to  her  father's  house  —  to  this  palace 
here." 

After  a  few  more  words  the  patrol  passed  on,  leaving 
the  two  cousins  to  their  own  devices.  .  Sant'  Ilario  was 
utterly  annoyed  at  the  view  just  presented  to  him,  and 
could  not  believe  the  thing  true,  though  he  had  no  other 
explanation  to  offer. 

"It  is  of  no  use  to  stand  here  doing  nothing,"  said 
San  Giacinto  rather  impatiently.  "There  is  another 
croAvd  coming,  too,  and  we  shall  be  delayed  again.  I 
think  we  had  better  separate.  I  will  go  one  way,  and 
you  take  the  other." 

"Where  will  you  go?"  asked  Sant'  Ilario.  "You  do 
not  know  your  way  about " 

"  As  she  may  be  anywhere,  we  may  find  her  anywhere, 
so  that  it  is  of  no  importance  whether  I  know  the  names 
of  the  streets  or  not.  You  had  best  think  of  all  the 
houses  to  which  she  might  have  gone,  among  her  friends. 
You  know  them  better  than  I  do.  I  will  beat  up  all  the 
streets  between  here  and  your  house.  When  I  am  tired 
I  will  go  to  your  palace." 

"I  am  afraid  you  will  not  find  her,"  replied  Sant' 
Ilario.  "But  we  must  try  for  the  sake  of  her  poor 
mother." 

"It  is  a  question  of  luck,"  said  the  other,  and  they 
separated  at  once. 

San  Giacinto  turned  in  the  direction  of  the  crowd 
which  was  pouring  into  the  street  at  some  distance 
farther  on.  As  he  approached,  he  heard  the  name 
"  Serristori "  spoken  frequently  in  the  hum  of  voices. 

"  What  about  the  Serristori?  "  he  asked  of  the  first  he 
met. 


70  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"Have  you  not  heard?"  cried  the  fellow.  "It  is 
blown  up  with  gunpowder !  There  are  at  least  a  thou 
sand  dead.  Half  the  Borgo  Nuovo  is  destroyed,  and 
they  say  that  the  Vatican  will  go  next " 

The  man  would  have  run  on  for  any  length  of  time, 
but  San  Giacinto  had  heard  enough  and  dived  into  the 
first  byway  he  found,  intending  to  escape  the  throng  and 
make  straight  for  the  barracks.  He  had  to  ask  his  way 
several  times,  and  it  was  fully  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
before  he  reached  the  bridge.  Thence  he  easily  found 
the  scene  of  the  disaster,  and  came  up  to  the  hospital  of 
Santo  Spirito  just  after  the  gates  had  closed  behind  the 
bearers  of  the  dead.  He  mixed  with  the  crowd  and  asked 
questions,  learning  very  soon  that  the  first  search,  made 
by  the  people  from  the  hospital,  had  only  brought  to 
light  the  bodies  of  two  Zouaves  and  one  woman. 

"  And  I  did  not  see  her,"  said  the  man  who  was  speak 
ing,  "but  they  say  she  was  a  lady  and  beautiful  as  an 
angel." 

"  Eubbish ! "  exclaimed  another.  "  She  was  a  little 
sewing  woman  who  lived  in  the  Borgo  Vecchio.  And  I 
know  it  is  true  because  her  innamorato  was  one  of  the 
dead  Zouaves  they  picked  up." 

"I  don't  believe  there  was  any  woman  at  all,"  said  a 
third.  "What  should  a  woman  be  doing  at  the  bar 
racks?" 

"She  was  killed  outside,"  observed  the  first  speaker, 
a  timid  old  man.  "  At  least,  I  was  told  so,  but  I  did 
not  see  her." 

"It  was  a  woman  bringing  a  baby  to  put  into  the 
Rota,"1  cried  a  shrill-voiced  washerwoman.  "She  got 
the  child  in  and  was  running  away,  when  the  place  blew 
up,  and  the  devil  carried  her  off.  And  serve  her  right, 
for  throwing  away  her  baby,  poor  little  thing ! " 

In  the  light  of  these  various  opinions,  most  of  which 
supported  the  story  that  some  woman  had  been  carried 
into  the  hospital,  San  Giacinto  determined  to  find  out 
the  truth,  and  boldly  rang  the  bell.  A  panel  was  opened 

1  The  Rota  was  a  revolving  box  in  which  foundlings  were  formerly 
placed.  The  box  turned  round  and  the  infant  was  taken  inside  and 
cared  for.  It  stands  at  the  gate  of  the  Santo  Spirito  Hospital,  and  is 
still  visible,  though  no  longer  in  use. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  71 

in  the  door,  and  the  porter  looked  out  at  the  surging 
crowd. 

"What  do  you  want?"  he  inquired  roughly,  on  seeing 
that  admittance  had  not  been  asked  for  a  sick  or  wounded 
person. 

"I  want  to  speak  with  the  surgeon  in  charge,"  replied 
San  Giacinto. 

"  He  is  busy, "  said  the  man  rather  doubtfully.  "  Who 
are  you?" 

"A  friend  of  one  of  the  persons  just  killed." 

"They  are  dead.  You  had  better  wait  till  morning 
and  come  again, "  suggested  the  porter. 

"  But  I  want  to  be  sure  that  it  is  my  friend  who  is 
dead." 

"  Then  why  do  you  not  give  your  name?  Perhaps  you 
are  a  Garibaldian.  Why  should  I  open?  " 

"I  will  tell  the  surgeon  my  name,  if  you  will  call  him. 
There  is  something  for  yourself.  Tell  him  I  am  a  Roman 
prince  and  must  see  him  for  a  moment." 

"I  will  see  if  he  will  come,"  said  the  man,  shutting 
the  panel  in  San  Giacinto's  face.  His  footsteps  echoed 
along  the  pavement  of  the  wide  hall  within.  It  was  long 
before  he  came  back,  and  San  Giacinto  had  leisure  to 
reflect  upon  the  situation. 

He  had  very  little  doubt  but  that  the  dead  woman  was  no 
other  than  Donna  Faustina.  By  a  rare  chance,  or  rather 
in  obedience  to  an  irresistible  instinct,  he  had  found  the 
object  of  his  search  in  half  an  hour,  while  his  cousin 
was  fruitlessly  inquiring  for  the  missing  girl  in  the 
opposite  direction.  He  had  been  led  to  the  conclusion 
that  she  had  followed  Gouache  by  what  he  had  seen  in 
the  Saracinesca's  drawing-room,  and  by  a  process  of 
reasoning  too  simple  to  suggest  itself  to  an  ordinary 
member  of  Roman  society.  What  disturbed  him  most 
was  the  thought  of  the  consequences  of  his  discovery, 
and  he  resolved  to  conceal  the  girl's  name  and  his  own 
if  possible.  If  she  were  indeed  dead,  it  would  be  wiser 
to  convey  her  body  to  her  father's  house  privately;  if 
she  were  still  alive,  secrecy  was  doubly  necessary.  In 
either  case  it  would  be  utterly  impossible  to  account  to 
the  world  for  the  fact  that  Faustina  Montevarchi  had 
been  alone  in  the  Borgo  Kuovo  at  such  an  hour ;  and  San 


72  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Giacinto  had  a  lively  interest  in  preserving  the  good 
reputation  of  Casa  Montevarchi,  since  he  had  been  medi 
tating  for  some  time  past  a  union  with  Donna  Flavia. 

At  last  the  panel  opened  again,  and  when  the  porter 
had  satisfied  himself  that  the  gentleman  was  still  with 
out,  a  little  door  in  the  heavy  gate  was  cautiously 
unfastened  and  San  Giacinto  went  in,  bending  nearly 
double  to  pass  under  the  low  entrance.  In  the  great 
vestibule  he  was  immediately  confronted  by  the  surgeon 
in  charge,  who  was  in  his  shirt  sleeves,  but  had  thrown 
his  coat  over  his  shoulders  and  held  it  together  at  the 
neck  to  protect  himself  from  the  night  air.  San  Giacinto 
begged  him  to  retire  out  of  hearing  of  the  porter,  and 
the  two  walked  away  together. 

"  There  was  a  lady  killed  just  now  by  the  explosion, 
was  there  not?"  inquired  San  Giacinto. 

"She  is  not  dead,"  replied  the  surgeon.  "Do  you 
know  her?  " 

"I  think  so.  Had  she  anything  about  her  to  prove 
her  identity?" 

"The  letter  M  embroidered  on  her  handkerchief. 
That  is  all  I  know.  She  has  not  been  here  a  quarter  of 
an  hour.  I  thought  she  was  dead  myself,  when  we  took 
her  up." 

"She  was  not  under  the  ruins?" 

"  No.  She  was  struck  by  some  small  stone,  I  fancy. 
The  two  Zouaves  were  half  buried,  and  are  quite  dead." 

"May  I  see  them?  I  know  many  in  the  corps.  They 
might  be  acquaintances." 

"  Certainly.  They  are  close  by  in  the  mortuary  cham 
ber,  unless  they  have  been  put  in  the  chapel." 

The  two  men  entered  the  grim  place,  which  was  dimly 
lighted  by  a  lantern  hanging  overhead.  It  is  unnecessary 
to  dwell  upon  the  ghastly  details.  San  Giacinto  bent 
down  curiously  and  looked  at  the  dead  men's  faces.  He 
knew  neither  of  them,  and  told  the  surgeon  so. 

"Will  you  allow  me  to  see  the  lady?"  he  asked. 

"Pardon  me,  if  I  ask  a  question,"  said  the  surgeon, 
who  was  a  man  of  middle  age,  with  a  red  beard  and  keen 
grey  eyes.  "  To  whom  have  I  the  advantage  of  speak- 
ing?" 

"Signor  Professore, "  replied  San  Giacinto,  "I  must 


SANT'  ILARIO.  73 

tell  you  that  if  this  is  the  lady  I  suppose  your  patient 
to  be,  the  honour  of  one  of  the  greatest  families  in  Rome 
is  concerned,  and  it  is  important  that  strict  secrecy 
should  be  preserved." 

"The  porter  told  me  that  you  were  a  Roman  prince," 
returned  the  surgeon  rather  bluntly.  "But  you  speak 
like  a  southerner." 

"I  was  brought  up  in  Naples.  As  I  was  saying, 
secrecy  is  very  important,  and  I  can  assure  you  that  you 
will  earn  the  gratitude  of  many  by  assisting  me." 

"Do  you  wish  to  take  this  lady  away  at  once?" 

"Heaven  forbid!  Her  mother  and  sister  shall  come 
for  her  in  half  an  hour." 

The  surgeon  thrust  his  hands  into  his  pockets,  and 
stood  staring  for  a  moment  or  two  at  the  bodies  of  the 
Zouaves. 

"  I  cannot  do  it, "  he  said,  suddenly  looking  up  at  San 
Giacinto.  "I  am  master  here,  and  I  am  responsible. 
The  secret  is  professional,  of  course.  If  I  knew  you, 
even  by  sight,  I  should  not  hesitate.  As  it  is,  I  must 
ask  your  name." 

San  Giacinto  did  not  hesitate  long,  as  the  surgeon  was 
evidently  master  of  the  situation.  He  took  a  card  from 
his  case  and  silently  handed  it  to  the  doctor.  The  latter 
took  it  and  read  the  name,  "  Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca, 
Marchese  di  San  Giacinto."  His  face  betrayed  no  emo 
tion,  but  the  belief  flashed  through  his  mind  that  there 
was  no  such  person  in  existence.  He  was  one  of  the 
leading  men  in  his  profession,  arid  knew  Prince  Saracin 
esca  and  Sant'  Ilario,  but  he  had  never  heard  of  this 
other  Don  Giovanni.  He  knew  also  that  the  city  was  in 
a  state  of  revolution  and  that  many  suspicious  persons 
were  likely  to  gain  access  to  public  buildings  on  false 
pretences. 

"  Very  well, "  he  said  quietly.  "  You  are  not  afraid  of 
dead  men,  I  see.  Be  good  enough  to  wait  a  moment 
here  —  no  one  will  see  you,  and  you  will  not  be  recog 
nised.  I  will  go  and  see  that  there  is  nobody  in  the 
way,  and  you  shall  have  a  sight  of  the  young  lady." 

His  companion  nodded  in  assent  and  the  surgeon  went 
out  through  the  narrow  door.  San  Giacinto  was  sur 
prised  to  hear  the  heavy  key  turned  in  the  lock  and 


74  SANT'  ILARIO. 

withdrawn,  but  immediately  accounted  for  the  fact  on 
the  theory  that  the  surgeon  wished  to  prevent  any  one 
from  finding  his  visitor  lest  the  secret  should  be  divulged. 
He  was  not  a  nervous  man,  and  had  no  especial  horror  of 
being  left  alone  in  a  mortuary  chamber  for  a  few  min 
utes.  He  looked  about  him,  and  saw  that  the  room  was 
high  and  vaulted.  One  window  alone  gave  air,  and  this 
was  ten  feet  from  the  floor  and  heavily  ironed.  He 
reflected  with  a  smile  that  if  it  pleased  the  surgeon  to 
leave  him  there  he  could  not  possibly  get  out.  Neither 
his  size  nor  his  phenomenal  strength  could  assist  him  in 
the  least.  There  was  no  furniture  in  the  place.  Half 
a  dozen  slabs  of  slate  for  the  bodies  were  built  against 
the  wall,  solid  and  immovable,  and  the  door  was  of  the 
heaviest  oak,  thickly  studded  with  huge  iron  nails.  If 
the  dead  men  had  been  living  prisoners  their  place  of 
confinement  could  not  have  been  more  strongly  contrived. 

San  Giacinto  waited  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  and  at  last, 
as  the  surgeon  did  not  return,  he  sat  down  upon  one  of 
the  marble  slabs  and,  being  very  hungry,  consoled  him 
self  by  lighting  a  cigar,  while  he  meditated  upon  the 
surest  means  of  conveying  Donna  Faustina  to  her  father's 
house.  At  last  he  began  to  wonder  how  long  he  was  to 
wait. 

"I  should  not  wonder,"  he  said  to  himself,  "if  that 
long-eared  professor  had  taken  me  for  a  revolutionist." 

He  was  not  far  wrong,  indeed.  The  surgeon  had 
despatched  a  messenger  for  a  couple  of  gendarmes  and 
had  gone  about  his  business  in  the  hospital,  knowing 
very  well  that  it  would  take  some  time  to  find  the  police 
while  the  riot  lasted,  and  congratulating  himself  upon 
having  caught  a  prisoner  who,  if  not  a  revolutionist,  was 
at  all  events  an  impostor,  since  he  had  a  card  printed 
with  a  false  name. 


CHAPTER  VI. 

The  improvised  banquet  at  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca 
was  not  a  merry  one,  but  the  probable  dangers  to  the 
city  and  the  disappearance  of  Faustina  Montevarchi 


SANT'  ILARIO.  75 

furnished  matter  for  plenty  of  conversation.  The  major 
ity  inclined  to  the  belief  that  the  girl  had  lost  her  head 
and  had  run  home,  but  as  neither  Sant'  Ilario  nor  his 
cousin  returned,  there  was  much  speculation.  The  prince 
said  he  believed^that  they  had  found  Faustina  at  her 
father's  house  and  had  stayed  to  dinner,  whereupon  some 
malicious  person  remarked  that  it  needed  a  revolution  in 
Rome  to  produce  hospitality  in  such  a  quarter. 

Dinner  was  nearly  ended  when  Pasquale,  the  butler, 
whispered  to  the  prince  that  a  gendarme  wanted  to  speak 
with  him  on  very  important  business. 

"Bring  him  here,"  answered  old  Saracinesca,  aloud. 
"  There  is  a  gendarme  outside, "  he  added,  addressing  his 
guests,  "he  will  tell  us  all  the  news.  Shall  we  have 
him  here?" 

Every  one  assented  enthusiastically  to  the  proposition, 
for  most  of  those  present  were  anxious  about  their 
houses,  not  knowing  what  had  taken  place  during  the 
last  two  hours.  The  man  was  ushered  in,  and  stood  at  a 
distance  holding  his  three-cornered  hat  in  his  hand,  and 
looking  rather  sheepish  and  uncomfortable. 

"Well?"  asked  the  prince.  "What  is  the  matter? 
We  all  wish  to  hear  the  news." 

"Excellency,"  began  the  soldier,  "I  must  ask  many 

pardons  for  appearing  thus "  Indeed  his  uniform 

was  more  or  less  disarranged  and  he  looked  pale  and 
fatigued. 

"Never  mind  your  appearance.  Speak  up,"  answered 
old  Saracinesca  in  encouraging  tones. 

"Excellency,"  said  the  man,  "I  must  apologise,  but 
there  is  a  gentleman  who  calls  himself  Don  Giovanni,  of 
your  revered  name " 

"  I  know  there  is.     He  is  my  son.     What  about  him?  " 

"  He  is  not  the  Senior  Principe  di  Sant'  Ilario,  Excel 
lency —  he  calls  himself  by  another  name  —  Marchese 
di  —  di  —  here  is  his  card,  Excellency." 

"  My  cousin,  San  Giacinto,  then.  What  about  him,  I 
say?" 

"  Your  Excellency  has  a  cousin "  stammered  the 

gendarme. 

"Well?  Is  it  against  the  law  to  have  cousins?"  cried 
the  prince.  "What  is  the  matter  with  my  cousin? " 


76  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"  Dio  mio!"  exclaimed  the  soldier  in  great  agitation. 
"  What  a  combination !  Your  Excellency's  cousin  is  in 
the  mortuary  chamber  at  Santo  Spirito ! " 

"Is  he  dead?"  asked  Saracinesca  in  a  lower  voice, 
but  starting  from  his  chair. 

"  No, "  cried  the  man,  "  questo  &  il  male !  That  is  the 
trouble!  He  is  alive  and  very  well!  " 

"Then  what  the  devil  is  he  doing  in  the  mortuary 
chamber?  "  roared  the  prince. 

"  Excellency,  I  beseech  your  pardon,  I  had  nothing  to 
do  with  locking  up  the  Signor  Marchese.  It  was  the 
surgeon,  Excellency,  who  took  him  for  a  Garibaldian. 
He  shall  be  liberated  at  once " 

"I  should  think  so!  "  answered  Saracinesca,  savagely. 
"And  what  business  have  your  asses  of  surgeons  with 
gentlemen?  My  hat,  Pasquale.  And  how  on  earth  came 
my  cousin  to  be  in  Santo  Spirito?" 

"Excellency,  I  know  nothing,  but  I  had  to  do  my 
duty." 

"  And  if  you  know  nothing  how  the  devil  do  you  ex 
pect  to  do  your  duty !  I  will  have  you  and  the  surgeon 
and  the  whole  of  Santo  Spirito  and  all  the  patients,  in 
the  Carceri  Nuove,  safe  in  prison  before  morning !  My 
hat,  Pasquale,  I  say !  " 

Some  confusion  followed,  during  which  the  gendarme, 
who  was  anxious  to  escape  all  responsibility  in  the  mat 
ter  of  San  Giacinto 's  confinement,  left  the  room  and 
descended  the  grand  staircase  three  steps  at  a  time. 
Mounting  his  horse  he  galloped  back  through  the  now 
deserted  streets  to  the  hospital. 

Within  two  minutes  after  his  arrival  San  Giacinto 
heard  the  bolt  of  the  heavy  lock  run  back  in  the  socket 
and  the  surgeon  entered  the  mortuary  chamber.  San 
Giacinto  had  nearly  finished  his  cigar  and  was  growing 
impatient,  but  the  doctor  made  many  apologies  for  his 
long  absence. 

"An  unexpected  relapse  in  a  dangerous  case,  Signor 
Marchese,"  he  said  in  explanation.  "What  would  you 
have?  We  doctors  are  at  the  mercy  of  nature!  Pray 
forgive  my  neglect,  but  I  could  send  no  one,  as  you  did 
not  wish  to  be  seen.  I  locked  the  door,  so  that  nobody 
might  find  you  here.  Pray  come  with  me,  and  you  shall 
see  the  young  lady  at  once." 


SANT'  ILABIO.  77 

"By  all  means,"  replied  San  Giacinto.  "Dead  men 
are  poor  company,  and  I  am  in  a  hurry." 

The  surgeon  led  the  way  to  the  accident  ward  and  in 
troduced  his  companion  to  a  small  clean  room  in  which 
a  shaded  lamp  was  burning.  A  Sister  of  Mercy  stood  by 
the  white  bed,  upon  which  lay  a  young  girl,  stretched 
out  at  her  full  length. 

"You  are  too  late,"  said  the  nun  very  quietly.  " She 
is  dead,  poor  child." 

San  Giacinto  uttered  a  deep  exclamation  of  horror 
and  was  at  the  bedside  even  before  the  surgeon.  He 
lifted  the  fair  young  creature  in  his  arms  and  stared  at 
the  cold  face,  holding  it  to  the  light.  Then  with  a  loud 
cry  of  astonishment  he  laid  down  his  burden. 

"It  is  not  she,  Signer  Professore,"  he  said.  "I  must 
apologise  for  the  trouble  I  have  given  you.  Pray  accept 
my  best  thanks.  There  is  a  resemblance,  but  it  is  not 
she." 

The  doctor  was  somewhat  relieved  to  find  himself  freed 
from  the  responsibility  which,  as  San  Giacinto  had  told 
him,  involved  the  honour  of  one  of  the  greatest  families 
in  Rome.  Before  speaking,  he  satisfied  himself  that  the 
young  woman  was  really  dead. 

"Death  often  makes  faces  look  alike  which  have  no 
resemblance  to  each  other  in  life,"  he  remarked  as  he 
turned  away.  Then  they  both  left  the  room,  followed 
at  a  little  distance  by  the  sister  who  was  going  to  sum 
mon  the  bearers  to  carry  away  her  late  charge. 

As  the  two  men  descended  the  steps,  the  sound  of  loud 
voices  in  altercation  reached  their  ears,  and  as  they 
emerged  into  the  vestibule,  they  saw  old  Prince  Saracin- 
esca  nourishing  his  stick  in  dangerous  proximity  to 
the  head  of  the  porter.  The  latter  had  retreated  until 
he  stood  with  his  back  against  the  wall. 

"I  will  have  none  of  this  lying,"  shouted  the  irate 
nobleman.  "  The  Marchese  is  here  —  the  gendarme  told 
me  he  was  in  the  mortuary  chamber  —  if  he  is  not  pro 
duced  at  once  I  will  break  your  rascally  neck "  The 

man  was  protesting  as  fast  and  as  loud  as  his  assailant 
threatened  him. 

"  Eh !  My  good  cousin !  "  cried  San  Giacinto,  whose 
unmistakable  voice  at  once  made  the  prince  desist  from 


78  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

his  attack  and  turn  round.  "  Do  not  kill  the  fellow !  I 
am  alive  and  well,  as  you  see." 

A  short  explanation  ensued,  during  which  the  surgeon 
was  obliged  to  admit  that  as  San  Giacinto  had  no  means 
of  proving  any  identity  he,  the  doctor  in  charge,  had 
thought  it  best  to  send  for  the  police,  in  view  of  the 
unquiet  state  of  the  city. 

"But  what  brought  you  here?"  asked  old  Saracin- 
esca,  who  was  puzzled  to  account  for  his  cousin's  pres 
ence  in  the  hospital. 

San  Giacinto  had  satisfied  his  curiosity  and  did  not 
care  a  pin  for  the  annoyance  to  which  he  had  been  sub 
jected.  He  was  anxious,  too,  to  get  away,  and  having 
half  guessed  the  surgeon's  suspicions  was  not  at  all  sur 
prised  by  the  revelation  concerning  the  gendarme. 

"Allow  me  to  thank  you  again,"  he  said  politely, 
turning  to  the  doctor.  "  I  have  no  doubt  you  acted  quite 
rightly.  Let  us  go,"  he  added,  addressing  the  prince. 

The  porter  received  a  coin  as  consolation  money  for 
the  abuse  he  had  sustained,  and  the  two  cousins  found 
themselves  in  the  street.  Saracinesca  again  asked  for 
an  explanation. 

"Very  simple,"  replied  San  Giacinto.  "Donna  Faus 
tina  was  not  at  her  father's  house,  so  your  son  and  I 
separated  to  continue  our  search.  Chancing  to  find  my 
self  here  —  for  I  do  not  know  my  way  about  the  city  —  I 
learnt  the  news  of  the  explosion,  and  was  told  that  two 
Zouaves  had  been  found  dead  and  had  been  taken  into 
the  hospital.  Fearing  lest  one  of  them  might  have  been 
Gouache,  I  succeeded  in  getting  in,  when  I  was  locked 
up  with  the  dead  bodies,  as  you  have  heard.  Gouache, 
by  the  bye,  was  not  one  of  them." 

"It  is  outrageous "  began  Saracinesca,  but  his 

companion  did  not  allow  him  to  proceed. 

"  It  is  no  matter, "  he  said,  quickly.  "  The  important 
thing  is  to  find  Donna  Faustina.  I  suppose  you  have  no 
news  of  her." 

"None.  Giovanni  had  not  come  home  when  the  gen 
darme  appeared." 

"  Then  we  must  continue  the  search  as  best  we  can, " 
said  San  Giacinto.  Thereupon  they  both  got  into  the 
prince's  cab  and  drove  away. 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  79 

It  was  nearly  midnight  when  a  small  detachment  of 
Zouaves  crossed  the  bridge  of  Sant'  Angelo.  There  had 
been  some  sharp  fighting  at  the  Porta  San  Paolo,  at  the 
other  extremity  of  Rome,  and  the  men  were  weary.  But 
rest  was  not  to  be  expected  that  night,  and  the  tired  sol 
diers  were  led  back  to  do  sentry  duty  in  the  neighbour 
hood  of  their  quarters.  The  officer  halted  the  little  body 
in  the  broad  space  beyond. 

"Monsieur  Gouache,"  said  the  lieutenant,  "you  will 
take  a  corporal's  guard  and  maintain  order  in  the  neigh 
bourhood  of  the  barracks  —  if  there  is  anything  left  of 
them,"  he  added  with  a  mournful  laugh. 

Gouache  stepped  forward  and  half  a  dozen  men  formed 
themselves  behind  him.  The  officer  was  a  good  friend 
of  his. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  not  dined  any  more  than  I,  Mon 
sieur  Gouache?" 

"Not  I,  mon  lieutenant.     It  is  no  matter." 

"  Pick  up  something  to  eat  if  you  can,  at  such  an  hour. 
I  will  see  that  you  are  relieved  before  morning.  Shoul 
der  arms !  March !  " 

So  Anastase  Gouache  trudged  away  down  the  Borgo 
Nuovo  with  his  men  at  his  heels.  Among  the  number 
there  was  the  son  of  a  French  duke,  an  English  gentle 
man  whose  forefathers  had  marched  with  the  Conqueror 
as  their  descendant  now  marched  behind  the  Parisian 
artist,  a  young  Swiss  doctor  of  law,  a  couple  of  red 
headed  Irish  peasants,  and  two  or  three  others.  When 
they  reached  the  scene  of  the  late  catastrophe  the  place 
was  deserted.  The  men  who  had  been  set  to  work  at 
clearing  away  the  rubbish  had  soon  found  what  a  hope 
less  task  they  had  undertaken;  and  the  news  having 
soon  spread  that  only  the  regimental  musicians  were  in 
the  barracks  at  the  time,  and  that  these  few  had  been  in 
all  probability  in  the  lower  story  of  the  building,  where 
the  band-room  was  situated,  all  attempts  at  finding  the 
bodies  were  abandoned  until  the  next  day. 

Gouache  and  many  others  had  escaped  death  almost 
miraculously,  for  five  minutes  had  not  elapsed  after  they 
had  started  at  the  double-quick  for  the  Porta  San  Paolo, 
when  the  building  was  blown  up.  The  news  had  of 
course  been  brought  to  them  while  they  were  repulsing 


80  SANT'  ILARIO. 

the  attack  upon  the  gate,  but  it  was  not  until  many  hours 
afterwards  that  a  small  detachment  could  safely  be 
spared  to  return  to  their  devastated  quarters.  Gouache 
himself  had  been  just  in  time  to  join  his  comrades,  and 
with  them  had  seen  most  of  the  fighting.  He  now  placed 
his  men  at  proper  distances  along  the  street,  and  found 
leisure  to  reflect  upon  what  had  occurred.  He  was  hun 
gry  and  thirsty,  and  grimy  with  gunpowder,  but  there 
was  evidently  no  prospect  of  getting  any  refreshment. 
The  night,  too,  was  growing  cold,  and  he  found  it  nec 
essary  to  walk  briskly  about  to  keep  himself  warm.  At 
first  he  tramped  backwards  and  forwards,  some  fifty  paces 
each  way,  but  growing  weary  of  the  monotonous  exercise, 
he  began  to  scramble  about  among  the  heaps*  of  ruins. 
His  quick  imagination  called  up  the  scene  as  it  must 
have  looked  at  the  moment  of  the  explosion,  and  then 
reverted  with  a  sharp  pang  to  the  thought  of  his  poor 
comrades-in-arms  who  lay  crushed  to  death  many  feet 
below  the  stones  on  which  he  trod. 

Suddenly,  as  he  leaned  against  a  huge  block,  absorbed 
in  his  thoughts,  the  low  wailing  of  a  woman's  voice 
reached  his  ears.  The  sound  proceeded  apparently  from 
no  great  distance,  but  the  tone  was  very  soft  and  low. 
Gradually,  as  he  listened,  he  thought  he  distinguished 
words,  but  such  words  as  he  had  not  expected  to  hear, 
though  they  expressed  his  own  feeling  well  enough. 

"  Requiem  eternam  dona  eis  I " 

It  was  quite  distinct,  and  the  accents  sounded  strangely 
familiar.  He  held  his  breath  and  strained  every  faculty 
to  catch  the  sounds. 

"  Requiem  sempiternam  —  sempiternam  —  sempiter- 
nam  !"  The  despairing  tones  trembled  at  the  third 
repetition,  and  then  the  voice  broke  into  passionate  sob 
bing. 

Anastase  did  not  wait  for  more.  At  first  he  had  half 
believed  that  what  he  heard  was  due  to  his  imagination, 
but  the  sudden  weeping  left  no  doubt  that  it  was  real. 
Cautiously  he  made  his  way  amongst  the  ruins,  until  he 
stopped  short  in  amazement  not  unmingled  with  horror. 

In  an  angle  where  a  part  of  the  walls  was  still  stand 
ing,  a  woman  was  on  her  knees,  her  hands  stretched 
wildly  out  before  her,  her  darkly-clad  figure  faintly  re- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  81 

vealed  by  the  beams  of  the  waning  moon.  The  covering 
had  fallen  back  from  her  head  upon  her  shoulders,  and 
the  struggling  rays  fell  upon  her  beautiful  features, 
marking  their  angelic  outline  with  delicate  light.  Still 
Anastase  remained  motionless,  scarcely  believing  his 
eyes,  and  yet  knowing  that  lovely  face  too  well  not  to 
believe.  It  was  Donna  Faustina  Montevarchi  who  knelt 
there  at  midnight,  alone,  repeating  the  solemn  words 
from  the  mass  for  the  dead ;  it  was  for  him  that  she  wept, 
and  he  knew  it. 

Standing  there  upon  the  common  grave  of  his  com 
rades,  a  wild  joy  filled  the  young  man's  heart,  a  joy  such 
as  must  be  felt  to  be  known,  for  it  passes  the  power  of 
earthly  words  to  tell  it.  In  that  dim  and  ghastly  place 
the  sun  seemed  suddenly  to  shine  as  at  noonday  in  a  fair 
country;  the  crumbling  masonry  and  blocks  of  broken 
stone  grew  more  lovely  than  the  loveliest  flowers,  and 
from  the  dark  figure  of  that  lonely  heart-broken  woman 
the  man  who  loved  her  saw  a  radiance  proceeding  which 
overflowed  and  made  bright  at  once  his  eyes  and  his  heart. 
In  the  intensity  of  his  emotion,  the  hand  which  lay  upon 
the  fallen  stone  contracted  suddenly  and  broke  off  a 
fragment  of  the  loosened  mortar. 

At  the  slight  noise,  Faustina  turned  her  head.  Her 
eyes  were  wide  and  wild,  and  as  she  started  to  her  feet 
she  uttered  a  short,  sharp  cry,  and  staggered  backward 
against  the  wall.  In  a  moment  Anastase  was  at  her  side, 
supporting  her  and  looking  into  her  face. 

"Faustina!" 

During  a  few  seconds  she  gazed  horrorstruck  and  si 
lent  upon  him,  stiffening  herself  and  holding  her  face 
away  from  his.  It  was  as  though  his  ghost  had  risen  out 
of  the  earth  and  embraced  her.  Then  the  wild  look 
shivered  like  a  mask  and  vanished,  her  features  softened 
and  the  colour  rose  to  her  cheeks  for  an  instant.  Very 
slowly  she  drew  him  towards  her,  her  eyes  fixed  on  his ; 
their  lips  met  in  a  long,  sweet  kiss  —  then  her  strength 
forsook  her  and  she  swooned  away  in  his  arms. 

Gouache  supported  her  tenderly  until  she  sat  leaning 
against  the  wall,  and  then  knelt  down  by  her  side.  He 
did  not  know  what  to  do,  and  had  he  known,  it  would 
have  availed  him  little.  His  instinct  told  him  that  she 


82  SANT'  ILARIO. 

would  presently  recover  consciousness  and  his  emotions 
had  so  wholly  overcome  him  that  he  could  only  look  at 
her  lovely  face  as  her  head  rested  upon  his  arm.  But 
while  he  waited  a  great  fear  began  to  steal  into  his  heart. 
He  asked  himself  how  Faustina  had  come  to  such  a  place, 
and  how  her  coming  was  to  be  accounted  for.  It  was  long 
past  midnight,  now,  and  he  guessed  what  trouble  and 
anxiety  there  would  be  in  her  father's  house  until  she 
was  found.  He  represented  to  himself  in  quick  succes 
sion  the  scenes  which  would  follow  his  appearance  at  the 
Palazzo  Montevarchi  with  the  youngest  daughter  of  the 
family  in  his  arms  —  or  in  a  cab,  and  he  confessed  to 
himself  that  never  lover  had  been  in  such  straits. 

Faustina  opened  her  eyes  and  sighed,  nestled  her  head 
softly  on  his  breast,  sighing  again,  in  the  happy  con 
sciousness  that  he  was  safe,  and  then  at  last  she  sat  up 
and  looked  him  in  the  face. 

"  I  was  so  sure  you  were  killed, "  said  she,  in  her  soft 
voice. 

"My  darling!  "  he  exclaimed,  pressing  her  to  his  side. 

"Are  you  not  glad  to  be  alive? "  she  asked.  "For  my 
sake,  at  least !  You  do  not  know  what  I  have  suffered. " 

Again  he  held  her  close  to  him,  in  silence,  forgetting 
all  the  unheard-of  difficulties  of  his  situation  in  the  hap 
piness  of  holding  her  in  his  arms.  His  silence,  indeed, 
was  more  eloquent  than  any  words  could  have  been. 

"  My  beloved ! "  he  said  at  last,  "  how  could  you  run 
such  risks  for  me?  Do  you  think  I  am  worthy  of  so  much 
love?  And  yet,  if  loving  you  can  make  me  worthy  of 
you,  I  am  the  most  deserving  man  that  ever  lived  —  and 
I  live  only. for  you.  But  for  you  I  might  as  well  be 
buried  under  our  feet  here  with  my  poor  comrades.  But 
tell  me,  Faustina,  were  you  not  afraid  to  come?  How 
long  have  you  been  here?  It  is  very  late  —  it  is  almost 
morning." 

"Is  it?  What  does  it  matter,  since  you  are  safe?  You 
ask  how  I  came?  Did  I  not  tell  you  I  would  follow  you? 
Why  did  you  run  on  without  me?  I  ran  here  very 
quickly,  and  just  as  I  saw  the  gates  of  the  barracks  there 
was  a  terrible  noise  and  I  was  thrown  down,  I  cannot 
tell  how.  Soon  I  got  to  my  feet  and  crept  under  a  door 
way.  I  suppose  I  must  have  fainted,  for  I  thought  you 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  83 

were  killed.  I  saw  a  soldier  before  me,  just  when  it 
happened,  and  he  must  have  been  struck.  I  took  him 
for  you.  When  I  came  to  myself  there  were  so  many 
people  in  the  street  that  I  could  not  move  from  where  I 
was.  Then  they  went  away,  and  I  came  here  while  the 
workmen  tried  to  move  the  stones,  and  I  watched  them 
and  begged  them  to  go  on,  but  they  would  not,  and  I  had 
nothing  to  give  them,  so  they  went  away  too,  and  I  knew 
that  I  should  have  to  wait  until  to-morrow  to  find  you  — . 
for  I  would  have  waited  —  no  one  should  have  dragged 
me  away  —  ah!  my  darling  —  my  beloved!  What  does 
anything  matter  now  that  you  are  safe !  " 

For  fully  half  an  hour  they  sat  talking  in  this  wise, 
both  knowing  that  the  situation  could  not  last,  but  nei 
ther  willing  to  speak  the  word  which  must  end  it.  Gou 
ache,  indeed,  was  in  a  twofold  difficulty.  Not  only  was 
he  wholly  at  a  loss  for  a  means  of  introducing  Faustina 
into  her  father's  house  unobserved  at  such  an  hour;  he 
was  in  command  of  the  men  stationed  in  the  neighbour 
hood,  and  to  leave  his  post  under  any  circumstances 
whatever  would  be  a  very  grave  breach  of  duty.  He 
could  neither  allow  Faustina  to  return  alone,  nor  could 
he  accompany  her.  He  could  not  send  one  of  his  men 
for  a  friend  to  help  him,  since  to  take  any  one  into  his 
confidence  was  to  ruin  the  girl's  reputation  in  the  eyes 
of  all  Eome.  To  find  a  cab  at  that  time  of  night  was 
almost  out  of  the  question.  The  position  seemed  des 
perate.  Faustina,  too,  was  a  mere  child,  and  it  was 
impossible  to  explain  to  her  the  social  consequences  of 
her  being  discovered  with  him. 

"  I  think,  perhaps, "  said  she  after  a  happy  silence,  and 
in  rather  a  timid  voice  —  "I  think,  perhaps,  you  had 
better  take  me  home  now.  They  will  be  anxious,  you 
know,"  she  added,  as  though  fearing  that  he  should  sus 
pect  her  of  wishing  to  leave  him. 

"Yes,  I  must  take  you  home,"  answered  Gouache, 
somewhat  absently.  To  her  his  tone  sounded  cold. 

"Are  you  angry,  because  I  want  to  go?"  asked  the 
young  girl,  looking  lovingly  into  his  face. 

"Angry?  No  indeed,  darling !  I  ought  to  have  taken 
you  home  at  once  —  but  I  was  too  happy  to  think  of  it. 
Of  course  your  people  must  be  terribly  anxious,  and  the 


84  SANT'  ILARIO. 

question  is  how  to  manage  your  entrance.  Can  you  get 
into  the  house  unseen?  Is  there  any  way?  Any  small 
door  that  is  open?  " 

"We  can  wake  the  porter,"  said  Faustina,  simply. 
"He  will  let  us  in." 

"  It  would  not  do.  How  can  I  go  to  your  father  and 
tell  him  that  I  found  you  here?  Besides,  the  porter 
knows  me." 

"Well,  if  he  does,  what  does  it  matter?" 

"He  would  talk  about  it  to  other  servants,  and  all 
Kome  would  know  it  to-morrow.  You  must  go  home 
with  a  woman,  and  to  do  that  we  must  find  some  one 
you  know.  It  would  be  a  terrible  injury  to  you  to  have 
such  a  story  repeated  abroad." 

"Why?" 

To  this  innocent  question  Gouache  did  not  find  a  ready 
answer.  He  smiled  quietly  and  pressed  her  to  his  side 
more  closely. 

"  The  world  is  a  very  bad  place,  dearest.  I  am  a  man 
and  know  it.  You  must  trust  me  to  do  what  is  best. 
Will  you?" 

"How  can  you  ask?     I  will  always  trust  you." 

"  Then  I  will  tell  you  what  we  will  do.  You  must  go 
home  with  the  Princess  Sant'  Ilario." 

"  With  Corona?     But " 

"She  knows  that  I  love  you,  and  she  is  the  only 
woman  in  Rome  whom  I  would  trust.  Do  not  be  sur 
prised.  She  asked  me  if  it  was  true,  and  I  said  it  was. 
I  am  on  duty  here,  and  you  must  wait  for  me  while  I 
make  the  rounds  of  my  sentries  —  it  will  not  take  five 
minutes.  Then  I  will  take  you  to  the  Palazzo  Saracin- 
esca.  I  shall  not  be  missed  here  for  an  hour." 

"  I  will  do  whatever  you  wish, "  said  Faustina.  "  Per 
haps  that  is  best.  But  I  am  afraid  everybody  will  be 
asleep.  Is  it  not  very  late?  " 

"  I  will  wake  them  up  if  they  are  sleeping. " 

He  left  her  to  make  his  round  and  soon  assured  him 
self  that  his  men  were  not  napping.  Then  before  he 
returned  he  stopped  at  the  corner  of  a  street  and  by  the 
feeble  moonlight  scratched  a  few  words  on  a  leaf  from 
his  notebook. 

"Madame,"  he  wrote,  "I  have  found  Donna  Faustina 


SANT'  ILABIO.  85 

Montevarchi,  who  had  lost  her  way.  It  is  absolutely 
necessary  that  you  should  accompany  her  to  her  father's 
house.  You  are  the  only  person  whom  I  can  trust.  I 
am  at  your  gate.  Bring  something  in  the  way  of  a  cloak 
to  disguise  her  with." 

He  signed  his  initials  and  folded  the  paper,  slipping  it 
into  his  pocket  where  he  could  readily  find  it.  Then  he 
went  back  to  the  place  where  Faustina  was  waiting.  He 
helped  her  out  of  the  ruins,  and  passing  through  a  side 
street  so  as  to  avoid  the  sentinels,  they  made  their  way 
rapidly  to  the  bridge.  The  sentry  challenged  Gouache 
who  gave  the  word  at  once  and  was  allowed  to  pass  on 
with  his  charge.  In  less  than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  they 
were  at  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca.  Gouache  made  Faus 
tina  stand  in  the  shadow  of  a  doorway  on  the  opposite 
side  of  the  street  and  advanced  to  the  great  doors.  A 
ray  of  light  which  passed  through  the  crack  of  a  shutter 
behind  the  heavy  iron  grating  on  one  side  of  the  arch 
showed  that  the  porter  was  up.  Anastase  drew  his 
bayonet  from  his  side  and  tapped  with  its  point  against 
the  high  window. 

"Who  is  there?"  asked  the  porter,  thrusting  his  head 
out. 

" Is  the  Principe  di  Sant'  Ilario  still  awake?"  asked 
Gouache. 

"He  is  not  at  home.  Heaven  knows  where  he  is. 
What  do  you  want?  The  princess  is  sitting  up  to  wait 
for  the  prince." 

"That  will  do  as  well,"  replied  Anastase.  "I  am 
sent  with  this  note  from  the  Vatican.  It  needs  an 
immediate  answer.  Be  good  enough  to  say  that  I  was 
ordered  to  wait." 

The  explanation  satisfied  the  porter,  to  whom  the 
sight  of  a  Zouave  was  just  then  more  agreeable  than 
usual.  He  put  his  arm  out  through  the  grating  and  took 
the  paper. 

"  It  does  not  look  as  though  it  came  from  the  Vatican, " 
he  remarked  doubtfully,  as  he  turned  the  scrap  to  the 
light  of  his  lamp. 

"  The  cardinal  is  waiting  —  make  haste ! "  said  Gouache. 
It  struck  him  that  even  if  the  man  could  read  a  little, 
which  was  not  improbable,  the  initials  A.  G.,  being  those 


86  SANT'  ILARIO. 

of  Cardinal  Antonelli  in  reversed  order  would  be  enough 
to  frighten  the  fellow  and  make  him  move  quickly. 
This,  indeed  was  precisely  what  occurred. 

In  five  minutes  the  small  door  in  the  gate  was  opened 
and  Gouache  saw  Corona's  tall  figure  step  out  into  the 
street.  She  hesitated  a  moment  when  she  saw  the 
Zouave  alone,  and  then  closed  the  door  with  a  snap 
behind  her.  Gouache  bowed  quickly  and  gave  her  his 
arm. 

"Let  us  be  quick,"  he  said,  "or  the  porter  will  see  us. 
Donna  Faustina  is  under  that  doorway.  You  know  how 
grateful  I  am — there  is  no  time  to  say  it." 

Corona  said  nothing  but  hastened  to  Faustina's  side. 
The  latter  put  her  arms  about  her  friend's  neck  and 
kissed  her.  The  princess  threw  a  wide  cloak  over  the 
young  girl's  shoulders  and  drew  the  hood  over  her  head. 

"Let  us  be  quick,"  said  Corona,  repeating  Gouache's 
words.  They  walked  quickly  away  in  silence,  and  no 
one  spoke  until  they  reached  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi. 
Explanations  were  impossible,  and  every  one  was  too 
much  absorbed  by  the  danger  of  the  situation  to  speak 
of  anything  else.  When  they  were  a  few  steps  from  the 
gate  Corona  stopped. 

"You  may  leave  us  here,"  she  said  coldly,  addressing 
Gouache. 

"But,  princess,  I  will  see  you  home,"  protested  the 
latter,  somewhat  surprised  by  her  tone. 

"  No  —  I  will  take  a  servant  back  with  me.  Will  you 
be  good  enough  to  leave  us?  "  she  asked  almost  haughtily, 
as  Gouache  still  lingered. 

He  had  no  choice  but  to  obey  her  commands,  though 
for  some  time  he  could  not  explain  to  himself  the  cause 
of  the  princess's  behaviour. 

"Good-night,  Madame.  Good-night,  Mademoiselle," 
he  said,  quietly.  Then  with  a  low  bow  he  turned  away 
and  disappeared  in  the  darkness.  In  five  minutes  he 
had  reached  the  bridge,  running  at  the  top  of  his  speed, 
and  he  regained  his  post  without  his  absence  having 
been  observed. 

When  the  two  women  were  alone,  Corona  laid  her 
hand  upon  Faustina's  shoulder  and  looked  down  into  the 
girl's  face. 


SANT'  ILARTO.  87 

"Faustina,  my  child,"  she  said,  "how  could  you  be 
led  into  such  a  wild  scrape?" 

"Why  did  you  treat  him  so  unkindly?"  asked  the 
young  girl  with  flashing  eyes.  "It  was  cruel  and 
unkind " 

"Because  he  deserved  it,"  answered  Corona,  with  ris 
ing  anger.  "  How  could  he  dare  —  from  my  house  —  a 
mere  child  like  you " 

"  I  do  not  know  what  you  imagine, "  said  Faustina  in 
a  tone  of  deep  resentment.  "I  followed  him  to  the 
Serristori  barracks,  and  I  fainted  when  they  were  blown 
up.  He  found  me  and  brought  me  to  you,  because  he 
said  I  could  not  go  back  to  my  father's  house  with  him. 
If  I  love  him  what  is  that  to  you?" 

"  It  is  a  great  deal  to  me  that  he  should  have  got  you 
into  this  trouble." 

"  He  did  not.  If  it  is  trouble,  I  got  myself  into  it. 
Do  you  love  him  yourself  that  you  are  so  angry?  " 

"I!  "  cried  Corona  in  amazement  at  the  girl's  audac 
ity.  "  Poor  Gouache ! "  she  added  with  a  half-scornful, 
half-pitying  laugh.  "  Come,  child !  Let  us  go  in.  We 
cannot  stand  here  all  night  talking.  I  will  tell  your 
mother  that  you  lost  your  way  in  our  house  and  were 
found  asleep  in  a  distant  room.  The  lock  was  jammed, 
and  you  could  not  get  out. " 

"I  think  I  will  simply  tell  the  truth,"  answered  Faus 
tina. 

"You  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,"  said  Corona, 
sternly.  "Do  you  know  what  would  happen?  You 
would  be  shut  up  in  a  convent  by  your  father  for  several 
years,  and  the  world  would  say  that  I  had  favoured  your 
meetings  with  Monsieur  Gouache.-  This  is  no  trifling 
matter.  You  need  say  nothing.  I  will  give  the  whole 
explanation  myself,  and  take  the  responsibility  of  the 
falsehood  upon  my  own  shoulders." 

"I  promised  him  to  do  as  he  bid  me,"  replied  Faus 
tina.  "  I  suppose  he  would  have  me  follow  your  advice, 
and  so  I  will.  Are  you  still  angry,  Corona?  " 

"I  will  try  not  to  be,  if  you  will  be  sensible." 

They  knocked  at  the  gate  and  were  soon  admitted. 
The  whole  household  was  on  foot,  though  it  was  past 
one  o'clock.  It  is  unnecessary  to  describe  the  emotions 


88  SANT'  ILABIO. 

of  Faustina's  relations,  nor  their  gratitude  to  Corona, 
whose  explanation  they  accepted  at  once,  with  a  delight 
which  may  easily  be  imagined. 

"But  your  porter  said  he  had  seen  her  leave  your 
house,"  said  the  Princess  Montevarchi,  recollecting  the 
detail  and  anxious  to  have  it  explained. 

"He  was  mistaken,  in  his  fright,"  returned  Corona, 
calmly.  "It  was  only  my  maid,  who  ran  out  to  see 
what  was  the  matter  and  returned  soon  afterwards." 

There  was  nothing  more  to  be  said.  The  old  prince 
and  Ascanio  Bellegra  walked  home  with  Corona,  who 
refused  to  wait  until  a  carriage  could  be  got  ready,  on 
the  ground  that  her  husband  might  have  returned  from 
the  search  and  might  be  anxious  at  her  absence.  She 
left  her  escort  at  her  door  and  mounted  the  steps  alone. 
As  she  was  going  up  the  porter  came  running  after  her. 

"Excellency,"  he  said  in  low  tones,  "the  Signer  Prin 
cipe  came  back  while  you  were  gone,  and  I  told  him  that 
you  had  received  a  note  from  the  Vatican  and  had  gone 
away  with  the  Zouave  who  brought  it.  I  hope  I  did 
right " 

"  Of  course  you  did, "  replied  Corona.  She  was  a  calm 
woman  and  not  easily  thrown  off  her  guard,  but  as  she 
made  her  answer  she  was  conscious  of  an  unpleasant 
sensation  wholly  new  to  her.  She  had  never  done  any 
thing  concerning  which  she  had  reason  to  ask  herself 
what  Giovanni  would  think  of  it.  For  the  first  time 
since  her  marriage  with  him  she  knew  that  she  had 
something  to  conceal.  How,  indeed,  was  it  possible  to 
tell  him  the  story  of  Faustina's  wild  doings?  Giovanni 
was  a  man  who  knew  the  world,  and  had  no  great  belief 
in  its  virtues.  To  tell  him  what  had  occurred  would  be 
to  do  Faustina  an  irreparable  injury  in  his  eyes.  He 
would  believe  his  wife,  no  doubt,  but  he  would  tell  her 
that  Faustina  had  deceived  her.  She  cared  little  what 
he  might  think  of  Gouache,  for  she  herself  was  incensed 
against  him,  believing  that  he  must  certainly  have  used 
some  persuasion  to  induce  Faustina  to  follow  him,  mad 
as  the  idea  seemed. 

Corona  had  little  time  for  reflection,  however.  She 
could  not  stand  upon  the  stairs,  and  as  soon  as  she 
entered  the  house  she  must  meet  her  husband.  She  made 


SANT'  ILARIO.  89 

up  her  mind  hurriedly  to  do  what  in  most  cases  is 
extremely  dangerous.  Giovanni  was  in  her  boudoir, 
pale  and  anxious.  He  had  forgotten  that  he  had  not 
dined  that  evening  and  was  smoking  a  cigarette  with 
short  sharp  puffs. 

"  Thank  God ! "  he  cried,  as  his  wife  entered  the  room. 
"Where  have  you  been,  my  darling?" 

" Giovanni,"  said  Corona,  gravely,  laying  her  two 
hands  on  his  shoulders,  "  you  know  you  can  trust  me  — 
do  you  not?  " 

"  As  I  trust  Heaven, "  he  answered,  tenderly. 

"You  must  trust  me  now,  then,"  said  she.  "I  cannot 
tell  you  where  I  have  been.  I  will  tell  you  some  day, 
you  have  my  solemn  promise.  Faustina  Montevarchi  is 
with  her  mother.  I  took  her  back,  and  told  them  she 
had  followed  me  from  the  room,  had  lost  her  way  in 
the  house,  and  had  accidentally  fastened  a  door  which 
she  could  not  open.  You  must  support  the  story.  You 
need  only  say  that  I  told  you  so,  because  you  were  out 
at  the  time.  I  will  not  lie  to  you,  so  I  tell  you  that  I 
invented  the  story." 

Sant'  Ilario  was  silent  for  a  few  minutes,  during  which 
he  looked  steadily  into  his  wife's  eyes,  which  met  his 
without  flinching. 

"  You  shall  do  as  you  please,  Corona, "  he  said  at  last, 
returning  the  cigarette  to  his  lips  and  still  looking  at 
her.  "Will  you  answer  me  one  question?" 

"If  I  can  without  explaining." 

"That  Zouave  who  brought  the  message  from  the 
Vatican  —  was  he  Gouache?" 

Corona  turned  her  eyes  away,  annoyed  at  the  demand. 
To  refuse  to  answer  was  tantamount  to  admitting  the 
truth,  and  she  would  not  lie  to  her  husband. 

"It  was  Gouache,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  hesita 
tion. 

"I  thought  so,"  answered  Sant'  Ilario  in  a  low  voice. 
He  moved  away,  throwing  his  cigarette  into  the  fireplace. 
"Very  well,"  he  continued,  "I  will  remember  to  tell  the 
story  as  you  told  it  to  me,  and  I  am  sure  you  will  tell 
me  the  truth  some  day." 

"  Of  course, "  said  Corona.  "  And  I  thank  you,  Gio 
vanni,  with  my  whole  heart !  There  is  no  one  like  you, 
dear." 


90  SANT'  ILARIO. 

She  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside  him  as  he  stood,  and 
taking  his  hand  she  pressed  it  to  her  lips.  She  knew 
well  enough  what  a  strange  thing  she  had  asked,  and  she 
was  indeed  grateful  to  him.  He  stooped  down  and  kissed 
her  forehead. 

"I  will  always  trust  you,"  he  said,  softly.  "Tell  me, 
dear  one,  has  this  matter  given  you  pain?  Is  it  a  secret 
that  will  trouble  you?  " 

"  Not  now, "  she  answered,  frankly. 

Giovanni  was  in  earnest  when  he  promised  to  trust  his 
wife.  He  knew,  better  than  any  living  man,  how  well 
worthy  she  was  of  his  utmost  confidence,  and  he  meant 
what  he  said.  It  must  be  confessed  that  the  situation 
was  a  trying  one  to  a  man  of  his  temper,  and  the  depth 
of  his  love  for  Corona  can  be  judged  from  the  readiness 
with  which  he  consented  to  her  concealing  anything  from 
him.  Every  circumstance  connected  with  what  had 
happened  that  evening  was  strange,  and  the  conclusion, 
instead  of  elucidating  the  mystery,  only  made  it  more 
mysterious  still.  His  cousin's  point-blank  declaration 
that  Faustina  and  Gouache  were  in  love  was  startling  to 
all  his  ideas  and  prejudices.  He  had  seen  Gouache  kiss 
Corona's  hand  in  a  corner  of  the  drawing-room,  a  pro 
ceeding  which  he  did  not  wholly  approve,  though  it  was 
common  enough.  Then  Gouache  and  Faustina  had  dis 
appeared.  Then  Faustina  had  been  found,  and  to  facil 
itate  the  finding  it  had  been  necessary  that  Corona  and 
Gouache  should  leave  the  palace  together  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning.  Finally,  Corona  had  appealed  to  his 
confidence  in  her  and  had  taken  advantage  of  it  to  refuse 
any  present  explanation  whatever  of  her  proceedings. 
Corona  was  a  very  noble  and  true  woman,  and  he  had 
promised  to  trust  her.  How  far  he  kept  his  word  will 
appear  hereafter. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

When  San  Giacinto  heard  Corona's  explanation  of 
Faustina's  disappearance,  he  said  nothing.  He  did  not 
believe  the  story  in  the  least,  but  if  every  one  was  satis- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  91 

fied  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  not  be  satisfied 
also.  Though  he  saw  well  enough  that  the  tale  was  a 
pure  invention,  and  that  there  was  something  behind  it 
which  was  not  to  be  known,  the  result  was,  on  the  whole, 
exactly  what  he  desired.  He  received  the  thanks  of  the 
Montevarchi  household  for  his  fruitless  exertions  with 
a  smile  of  gratification,  and  congratulated  the  princess 
upon  the  happy  issue  of  the  adventure.  He  made  no 
present  attempt  to  ascertain  the  real  truth  by  asking 
questions  which  would  have  been  hard  to  answer,  for  he 
was  delighted  that  the  incident  should  be  explained  away 
and  forgotten  at  once.  Donna  Faustina's  disappearance 
was  of  course  freely  discussed  and  variously  commented, 
but  the  general  verdict  of  the  world  was  contrary  to  San 
Giaciuto's  private  conclusions.  People  said  that  the 
account  given  by  the  family  must  be  true,  since  it  was 
absurd  to  suppose  that  a  child  just  out  of  the  convent 
could  be  either  so  foolish  or  so  courageous  as  to  go  out 
alone  at  such  a  moment.  N"o  other  hypothesis  was  in 
the  least  tenable,  and  the  demonstration  offered  must  be 
accepted  as  giving  the  only  solution  of  the  problem.  San 
Giacinto  told  no  one  that  he  thought  differently. 

It  was  before  all  things  his  intention  to  establish  him 
self  firmly  in  Roman  society,  and  his  natural  tact  told 
him  that  the  best  way  to  accomplish  this  was  to  offend 
no  one,  and  to  endorse  without  question  the  opinion  of 
the  majority.  Moreover,  as  a  part  of  his  plan  for  assur 
ing  his  position  consisted  in  marrying  Faustina's  sister, 
his  interest  lay  manifestly  in  protecting  the  good  name 
of  her  family  by  every  means  in  his  power.  He  knew 
that  old  Montevarchi  passed  for  being  one  of  the  most 
rigid  amongst  the  stiff  company  of  the  strait-laced,  and 
that  the  prince  was  as  careful  of  the  conduct  of  his  chil 
dren,  as  his  father  had  formerly  been  in  regard  to  his 
own  doings.  Ascanio  Bellegra  was  the  result  of  this 
home  education,  and  already  bid  fair  to  follow  in  his 
parent's  footsteps.  Christian  virtues  are  certainly  not 
incompatible  with  manliness,  but  the  practice  of  them  as 
maintained  by  Prince  Montevarchi  had  made  his  son 
Ascanio  a  colourless  creature,  rather  non-bad  than  good, 
clothed  in  a  garment  of  righteousness  that  fitted  him 
only  because  his  harmless  soul  had  no  salient  bosses  of 


92  SANT"  ILARIO. 

goodness,  any  more  than  it  was  disfigured  by  any  repre 
hensible  depressions  capable  of  harbouring  evil. 

There  is  a  class  of  men  in  certain  states  of  society  who 
are  manly,  but  not  masculine.  There  is  nothing  para 
doxical  in  the  statement,  nor  is  it  a  mere  play  upon  the 
meanings  of  words.  There  are  men  of  all  ages,  young, 
middle-aged,  and  old,  who  possess  many  estimable  vir 
tues,  who  show  physical  courage  wherever  it  is  necessary, 
who  are  honourable,  strong,  industrious,  and  tenacious  of 
purpose,  but  who  undeniably  lack  something  which  be 
longs  to  the  ideal  man,  and  which,  for  want  of  a  better 
word,  we  call  the  masculine  element.  When  we  shall 
have  microscopes  so  large  and  powerful  that  a  human 
being  shall  be  as  transparent  under  the  concentrated  light 
of  the  lenses  as  the  tiniest  insect  when  placed  in  one  of 
our  modern  instruments,  then,  perhaps,  the  scientist  of 
the  future  may  discover  the  causes  of  this  difference.  I 
believe,  however,  that  it  does  not  depend  upon  the  fact 
of  one  man  having  a  few  ounces  more  of  blood  in  his  veins 
than  another.  The  fact  lies  deeper  hidden  than  that, 
and  may  puzzle  the  psychologist  as  well  as  the  professor 
of  anthropology.  For  us  it  exists,  and  we  cannot  explain 
it,  but  must  content  ourselves  with  comparing  the  phe 
nomena  which  proceed  from  these  differences  of  organi 
sation.  At  the  present  day  the  society  of  the  English- 
speaking  races  seems  to  favour  the  growth  of  the  creature 
who  is  only  manly  but  not  masculine,  whereas  outside 
the  pale  of  that  strange  little  family  which  calls  itself 
"society"  the  masculinity  of  man  is  more  striking  than 
among  other  races.  Not  long  ago  a  French  journalist 
said  that  many  of  the  peculiarities  of  the  English-speak 
ing  peoples  proceeded  from  the  omnipresence  of  the 
young  girl,  who  reads  every  novel  that  appears,  goes  to 
every  theatre,  and  regulates  the  tone  of  conversation  and 
literature  by  her  never-absent  innocence.  Cynics,  if 
there  are  still  representatives  of  a  school  which  has 
grown  ridiculous,  may  believe  this  if  they  please;  the 
fact  remains  that  it  is  precisely  the  most  masculine  class 
of  men  who  show  the  strongest  predilection  for  the  society 
of  the  most  refined  women,  and  who  on  the  whole  show 
the  greatest  respect  for  all  women  in  general.  The  mas 
culine  man  prefers  the  company  of  the  other  sex  by 


SANT'  ILABIO.  93 

natural  attraction,  and  would  perhaps  rather  fight  with 
other  men,  or  at  least  strive  to  outdo  them  in  the  strug 
gle  for  notoriety,  power,  or  fame,  than  spend  his  time  in 
friendly  conversation  with  them,  no  matter  how  inter 
esting  the  topic  selected.  This  point  of  view  may  be 
regarded  as  uncivilised,  but  it  may  be  pointed  out  that 
it  is  only  in  the  most  civilised  countries  that  the  society 
of  women  is  accessible  to  all  men  of  their  own  social 
position.  No  one  familiar  with  Eastern  countries  will 
pretend  that  Orientals  shut  up  their  women  because  they 
enjoy  their  company  so  much  as  to  be  unwilling  to  share 
the  privilege  with  their  friends. 

San  Giacinto  was  pre-eminently  a  masculine  man,  as 
indeed  were  all  the  Saracinesca,  in  a  greater  or  less  de 
gree.  He  understood  women  instinctively,  and,  with  a 
very  limited  experience  of  the  world,  knew  well  enough 
the  strength  of  their  influence.  It  was  characteristic  of 
him  that  he  had  determined  to  marry  almost  as  soon  as 
he  had  got  a  footing  in  Roman  society.  He  saw  clearly 
that  if  he  could  unite  himself  with  a  powerful  family  he 
could  exercise  a  directing  power  over  the  women  which 
must  ultimately  give  him  all  that  he  needed.  Through 
his  cousins  he  had  very  soon  made  the  acquaintance  of 
the  Montevarchi  household,  and  seeing  that  there  were 
two  marriageable  daughters,  he  profited  by  the  introduc 
tion.  He  would  have  preferred  Faustina,  perhaps,  but 
he  foresaw  that  he  should  find  fewer  difficulties  in  ob 
taining  her  sister  for  his  wife.  The  old  prince  and  prin 
cess  were  in  despair  at  seeing  her  still  unmarried,  and  it 
was  clear  that  they  were  not  likely  to  find  a  better  match 
for  her  than  the  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto.  He,  on  his 
part,  knew  that  his  past  occupation  was  a  disadvantage 
to  him  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  although  he  was  the 
undoubted  and  acknowledged  cousin  of  the  Saracinesca, 
and  the  only  man  of  the  family  besides  old  Leone  and 
his  son  Sant'  Ilario.  His  two  boys,  also,  were  a  draw 
back,  since  his  second  wife's  children  could  not  inherit 
the  whole  of  the  property  he  expected  to  leave.  But  his 
position  was  good,  and  Flavia  was  not  generally  consid 
ered  to  be  likely  to  marry,  so  that  he  had  good  hopes  of 
winning  her. 

It  was  clear  to  him  from  the  first  that  there  must  be 


94  SANT'  ILARIO. 

some  reason  why  she  had  not  married,  and  the  somewhat 
disparaging  remarks  concerning  her  which  he  heard  from 
time  to  time  excited  his  curiosity.  As  he  had  always 
intended  to  consult  the  head  of  his  family  upon  the  mat 
ter  he  now  determined  to  do  so  at  once.  He  was  not 
willing,  indeed,  to  let  matters  go  any  further  until  he 
had  ascertained  the  truth  concerning  her,  and  he  was  sure 
that  Prince  Saracinesca  would  tell  him  everything  at  the 
first  mention  of  a  proposal  to  marry  her.  The  old  gen 
tleman  had  too  much  pride  to  allow  his  cousin  to  make 
an  unfitting  match.  Accordingly,  on  the  day  following 
the  events  last  narrated  San  Giacinto  called  after  break 
fast  and  found  the  prince,  as  usual,  alone  in  his  study. 
He  was  not  dozing,  however,  for  the  accounts  of  the  last 
night's  doings  in  the  Osservatore  Romano  were  very 
interesting. 

"I  suppose  you  have  heard  all  about  Montevarchi's 
daughter?"  asked  Saracinesca,  laying  his  paper  aside 
and  giving  his  hand  to  San  Giacinto. 

"  Yes,  and  I  am  delighted  at  the  conclusion  of  the  ad 
venture,  especially  as  I  have  something  to  ask  you  about 
another  member  of  the  family." 

"I  hope  Flavia  has  not  disappeared  now,"  remarked 
the  prince. 

"I  trust  not,"  answered  San  Giacinto  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  was  going  to  ask  you  whether  I  should  have  your 
approval  if  I  proposed  to  marry  her." 

"  This  is  a  very  sudden  announcement, "  said  Saracin 
esca  with  some  surprise.  "I  must  think  about  it.  I 
appreciate  your  friendly  disposition  vastly,  my  dear 
cousin,  in  asking  my  opinion,  and  I  will  give  the  matter 
my  best  consideration." 

"I  shall  be  very  grateful,"  replied  the  younger  man, 
gravely.  "  In  my  position  I  feel  bound  to  consxilt  you. 
I  should  do  so  in  any  case  for  the  mere  benefit  of  your 
advice,  which  is  very  needful  to  one  who,  like  myself, 
is  but  a  novice  in  the  ways  of  Rome." 

Saracinesca  looked  keenly  at  his  cousin,  as  though 
expecting  to  discover  some  touch  of  irony  in  his  tone  or 
expression.  He  remembered  the  fierce  altercations  he 
had  engaged  in  with  Giovanni  when  he  had  wished  the 
latter  to  marry  Tullia  Mayer,  and  was  astonished  to  find 


SANT'  ILARIO.  95 

San  Giacinto,  over  whom  he  had  no  real  authority  at  all, 
so  docile  and  anxious  for  his  counsel. 

"I  suppose  you  would  like  to  know  something  about 
her  fortune,"  he  said  at  last.  " Montevarchi  is  rich,  but 
miserly.  He  could  give  her  anything  he  liked." 

"  Of  course  it  is  important  to  know  what  he  would  like 
to  give,"  replied  San  Giacinto  with  a  smile. 

"Of  course.  Very  well.  There  are  two  daughters 
already  married.  They  each  had  a  hundred  thousand 
scudi.  It  is  not  so  bad,  after  all,  when  you  think  what  a 
large  family  he  has  —  but  he  could  have  given  more.  As 
for  Flavia,  he  might  do  something  generous  for  the  sake 
of " 

The  old  gentleman  was  going  te  say,  for  the  sake  of 
getting  rid  of  her,  and  perhaps  his  cousin  thought  as 
much.  The  prince  checked  himself,  however,  and  ended 
his  sentence  rather  awkwardly. 

"  For  the  sake  of  getting  such  a  fine  fellow  for  a  hus 
band,"  he  said. 

"  Why  is  she  not  already  married?  "  inquired  San  Gia 
cinto  with  a  very  slight  inclination  of  his  head,  as  an 
acknowledgment  of  the  flattering  speech  whereby  the 
prince  had  helped  himself  out  of  his  difficulty. 

"Who  knows!  "  ejaculated  the  latter  enigmatically. 

"Is  there  any  story  about  her?  Was  she  ever  engaged 
to  be  married?  It  is  rather  strange  when  one  thinks  of 
it,  for  she  is  a  handsome  girl.  Pray  be  quite  frank  —  I 
have  taken  no  steps  in  the  matter." 

"  The  fact  is  that  I  do  not  know.  She  is  not  like  other 
girls,  and  as  she  gives  her  father  and  mother  some  trou 
ble  in  society,  I  suppose  that  young  men's  fathers  have 
been  afraid  to  ask  for  her.  No.  I  can  assure  you  that 
there  is  no  story  connected  with  her.  She  has  a  way  of 
stating  disagreeable  truths  that  terrifies  Montevarchi. 
She  was  delicate  as  a  child  and  was  brought  up  at  home, 
so  of  course  she  has  no  manners." 

"  I  should  have  thought  she  should  have  better  manners 
for  that,"  remarked  San  Giacinto.  The  prince  stared  at 
him  in  surprise. 

"We  do  not  think  so  here,"  he  answered  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause.  "  On  the  whole,  I  should  say  that  for  a 
hundred  and  twenty  thousand  you  might  marry  her,  if 


96  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

you  are  so  inclined  —  and  if  you  can  manage  her.  But 
that  is  a  matter  for  you  to  judge." 

"  The  Montevarchi  are,  I  believe,  what  you  call  a  great 
family?" 

"  They  are  not  the  Savelli,  nor  the  Frangipani  —  nor 
the  Saracinesca  either.  But  they  are  a  good  family  — 
good  blood,  good  fortune,  and  what  Montevarchi  calls 
good  principles." 

"  You  think  I  could  not  do  better  than  marry  Donna 
Flavia,  then?" 

"  It  would  be  a  good  marriage,  decidedly.  You  ought 
to  have  married  Tullia  Mayer.  If  she  had  not  made  a 
fool  of  herself  and  an  enemy  of  me,  and  if  you  had  turned 
up  two  years  ago  —  well,  there  were  a  good  many  objec 
tions  to  her,  and  stories  about  her,  too.  But  she  was 
rich  —  eh !  that  was  a  fortune  to  be  snapped  up  by  that 
scoundrel  Del  Ferice !  " 

"Del  Ferice?"  repeated  San  Giacinto.  "The  same 
who  tried  to  prove  that  your  son  was  married  by  copying 
my  marriage  register?  " 

"The  same.  I  will  tell  you  the  rest  of  the  story  some 
day.  Then  at  that  time  there  was  Bianca  Valdarno  — 
but  she  married  a  Neapolitan  last  year;  and  the  Eocca 
girl,  but  Onorato  Cantalupo  got  her  and  her  dowry  — 
Montevarchi's  second  son  —  and  —  well,  I  see  nobody 
now,  except  Flavia's  sister  Faustina.  Why  not  marry 
her?  It  is  true  that  her  father  means  to  catch  young 
Frangipani,  but  he  will  have  no  such  luck,  I  can  tell 
him,  unless  he  will  part  with  half  a  million." 

"Donna  Faustina  is  too  young,"  said  San  Giacinto, 
calmly.  "Besides,  as  they  are  sisters  and  there  is  so 
little  choice,  I  may  say  that  I  prefer  Donna  Flavia,  she 
is  more  gay,  more  lively." 

"Vastly  more,  I  have  no  doubt,  and  you  will  have  to 
look  after  her,  unless  you  can  make  her  fall  in  love  with 
you."  Saracinesca  laughed  at  the  idea. 

"With  me!"  exclaimed  San  Giacinto,  joining  in  his 
cousin's  merriment.  "  With  me,  indeed !  A  sober  wid 
ower,  between  thirty  and  forty !  A  likely  thing !  For 
tunately  there  is  no  question  of  love  in  this  matter.  I 
think  I  can  answer  for  her  conduct,  however." 

"  I  would  not  be  the  man  to  raise  your  jealousy ! " 


SANT'  ILABIO.  97 

remarked  Saracinesca,  laughing  again  as  he  looked  ad 
miringly  at  his  cousin's  gigantic  figure  and  lean  stern 
face.  "  You  are  certainly  able  to  take  care  of  your  wife. 
Besides,  I  have  no  doubt  that  Flavia  will  change  when 
she  is  married.  She  is  not  a  bad  girl  —  only  a  little  too 
fond  of  making  fun  of  her  father  and  mother,  and  after 
all,  as  far  as  the  old  man  is  concerned,  I  do  not  wonder. 
There  is  one  point  upon  which  you  must  satisfy  him, 
though  —  I  am  not  curious,  and  do  not  ask  you  ques 
tions,  but  I  warn  you  that  glad  as  he  will  be  to  marry 
his  daughter,  he  will  want  to  drive  a  bargain  with  you 
and  will  inquire  about  your  fortune." 

San  Giacinto  was  silent  for  a  few  moments  and  seemed 
to  be  making  a  calculation  in  his  head. 

"  Would  a  fortune  equal  to  what  he  gives  her  be  suffi 
cient?"  he  asked  at  length. 

"Yes.  I  fancy  so,"  replied  the  prince  looking  rather 
curiously  at  his  cousin.  "You  see,"  he  continued,  "as 
you  have  children  by  your  first  marriage,  Montevarchi 
would  wish  to  see  Flavia's  son  provided  for,  if  she  has 
one.  That  is  your  affair.  I  do  not  want  to  make  sug 
gestions." 

"  I  think, "  said  San  Giacinto  after  another  short  inter 
val  of  silence,  "that  I  could  agree  to  settle  something 
upon  any  children  which  may  be  born.  Do  you  think 
some  such  arrangement  would  satisfy  Prince  Monte 
varchi?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  can  agree  about  the  terms.  Such 
things  are  often  done  in  these  cases." 

"I  am  very  grateful  for  your  adivce.  May  I  count 
upon  your  good  word  with  the  prince,  if  he  asks  your 
opinion?" 

"Of  course,"  answered  Saracinesca,  readily,  if  not 
very  cordially. 

He  had  not  at  first  liked  his  cousin,  and  although  he 
had  overcome  his  instinctive  aversion  to  the  man,  the 
feeling  was  momentarily  revived  with  more  than  its  for 
mer  force  by  the  prospect  of  being  perhaps  called  upon 
to  guarantee,  in  a  measure,  San  Giacinto's  character  as 
a  suitable  husband  for  Flavia.  He  had  gone  too  far 
already  however,  for  since  he  had  given  his  approval  to 
the  scheme  it  would  not  become  him  to  withhold  his  co- 

H 


98  SANT*   ILARIO. 

operation,  should  his  assistance  be  in  any  way  necessary 
in  order  to  bring  about  the  marriage.  The  slight  change 
of  tone  as  he  uttered  the  last  words  had  not  escaped  San 
Giacinto,  however.  His  perceptions  were  naturally  quick 
and  were  sharpened  by  the  peculiarities  of  his  present 
position,  so  that  he  understood  Saracinesca's  unwilling 
ness  to  have  a  hand  in  the  matter  almost  better  than  the 
prince  understood  it  himself. 

"  I  trust  that  I  shall  not  be  obliged  to  ask  your  help, " 
remarked  San  Giacinto.  "  I  was,  indeed,  more  anxious 
for  your  goodwill  than  for  any  more  material  aid." 

"You  have  it,  with  all  my  heart,"  said  Saracinesca 
warmly,  for  he  was  a  little  ashamed  of  his  coldness. 

San  Giacinto  took  his  leave  and  went  away  well  satis 
fied  with  what  he  had  accomplished,  as  indeed  he  had 
good  cause  to  be.  Montevarchi's  consent  to  the  mar 
riage  was  not  doxibtful,  now  that  San  Giacinto  was  as 
sured  that  he  was  able  to  fulfil  the  conditions  which 
would  be  asked,  and  the  knowledge  that  he  was  able  to 
do  even  more  than  was  likely  to  be  required  of  him  gave 
him  additional  confidence  in  the  result.  To  tell  the  truth, 
he  was  strongly  attracted  by  Flavia;  and  though  he  would 
assuredly  have  fought  with  his  inclination  had  it  appeared 
to  be  misplaced,  he  was  pleased  with  the  prospect  of  marry 
ing  a  woman  who  would  not  only  strengthen  his  position 
in  society,  but  for  whom  he  knew  that  he  was  capable  of 
a  sincere  attachment.  Marriage,  according  to  his  light, 
was  before  all  things  a  contract  entered  into  for  mutual 
advantage;  but  he  saw  no  reason  why  the  fulfilment  of 
such  a  contract  should  not  be  made  as  agreeable  as  pos 
sible. 

The  principal  point  was  yet  to  be  gained,  however,-  and 
as  San  Giacinto  mounted  the  steps  of  the  Palazzo  Mon- 
tevarchi  he  stopped  more  than  once,  considering  for  the 
last  time  whether  he  were  doing  wisely  or  not.  On  the 
whole  he  determined  to  proceed,  and  made  up  his  mind 
that  he  would  go  straight  to  the  point. 

Flavia's  father  was  sitting  in  his  study  when  San  Gia 
cinto  arrived,  and  the  latter  was  struck  by  the  contrast 
between  the  personalities  and  the  modes  of  life  of  his 
cousin  whom  he  had  just  left  and  of  the  man  to  whom  he 
was  about  to  propose  himself  as  a  son-in-law.  The  Sara- 


SANT*   ILARIO.  99 

cinesca  were  by  no  means  very  luxurious  men,  but  they 
understood  the  comforts  of  existence  better  than  most 
Romans  of  that  day.  If  there  was  massive  old-fashioned 
furniture  against  the  walls  and  in  the  corners  of  the  huge 
rooms,  there  were  on  the  other  hand  soft  carpets  for  the 
feet  and  cushioned  easy-chairs  to  sit  in.  There  were 
fires  on  the  hearths  when  the  weather  was  cold,  and 
modern  lamps  for  the  long  winter  evenings.  There  were 
new  books  on  the  tables,  engravings,  photographs,  a  few 
objects  of  value  and  beauty  not  jealously  locked  up  in 
closets,  but  looking  as  though  they  were  used,  if  useful, 
or  at  least  as  if  some  one  derived  pleasure  from  looking 
at  them.  The  palace  itself  was  a  stern  old  fortress  in  the 
midst  of  the  older  part  of  the  city,  but  within  there  was 
a  genial  atmosphere  of  generous  living,  and,  since  Sant' 
Ilario's  marriage  with  Corona,  an  air  of  refinement  and 
good  taste  such  as  only  a  woman  can  impart  to  the  house 
in  which  she  dwells. 

The  residence  of  the  Montevarchi  was  very  different. 
Narrrow  strips  of  carpet  were  stretched  in  straight  lines 
across  cold  marble  floors,  from  one  door  to  another.  In 
stead  of  open  fires  in  the  huge  chimney-places,  pans  of 
lighted  charcoal  were  set  in  the  dim,  empty  rooms.  Half 
a  dozen  halls  were  furnished  alike.  Each  had  three 
marble  tables  and  twelve  straight -backed  chairs  ranged 
against  the  walls,  the  only  variety  being  that  some  were 
covered  with  red  damask  and  some  with  green.  Vast  old- 
fashioned  mirrors,  set  in  magnificent  frames  built  into 
the  wall,  reflected  vistas  of  emptiness  and  acres  of  cold 
solitude.  Nor  were  the  rooms  where  the  family  met 
much  better.  There  were  more  tables  and  moi?e  straight- 
backed  chairs  there  than  in  the  outer  halls,  but  that  was 
all.  The  drawing-room  had  a  carpet,  which  for  many 
years  had  been  an  object  of  the  greatest  concern  to  the 
prince,  who  never  left  Eome  for  the  months  of  August 
and  September  until  he  had  assured  himself  that  this 
valuable  object  had  been  beaten,  dusted,  peppered,  and 
sewn  up  in  a  linen  case  as  old  as  itself,  that  is  to  say, 
dating  from  a  quarter  of  a  century  back.  That  carpet  was 
an  extravagance  to  which  his  father  had  been  driven  by 
his  English  daughter-in-law;  it  was  the  only  one  of 
which  he  had  ever  been  guilty,  and  the  present  head  of 


100  SANT'  ILARIO. 

the  family  meant  that  it  should  last  his  lifetime,  and 
longer  too,  if  care  could  preserve  it.  The  princess  her 
self  had  been  made  to  remember  for  five  and  twenty 
years  that  since  she  had  obtained  a  carpet  she  must  ex 
pect  nothing  else  in  the  way  of  modern  improvements. 
It  was  the  monument  of  a  stupendous  energy  which  she 
had  expended  entirely  in  that  one  struggle,  and  the  sight 
of  it  reminded  her  of  her  youth.  Long  ago  she  had  sub 
mitted  once  and  for  ever  to  the  old  Ecman  ways,  and 
though  she  knew  that  a  very  little  saved  from  the  ex 
pense  of  maintaining  a  score  of  useless  servants  and  a 
magnificent  show  equipage  would  suffice  to  make  at  least 
one  room  in  the  house  comfortable  for  her  use,  she  no 
longer  sighed  at  the  reflection,  but  consoled  herself  with 
making  her  children  put  up  with  the  inconveniences  she 
herself  had  borne  so  long  and  so  patiently. 

Prince  Montevarchi's  private  room  was  as  comfortless 
as  the  rest  of  the  house.  Xarrow,  high,  dim,  carpetless, 
insufficiently  warmed  in  winter  by  a  brazier  of  coals,  and 
at  present  not  warmed  at  all,  though  the  weather  was 
chilly;  furnished  shabbily  with  dusty  shelves,  a  writing- 
table,  and  a  few  chairs  with  leather  seats,  musty  with 
an  ancient  mustiness  which  seemed  to  be  emitted  by  the 
rows  of  old  books  and  the  moth-eaten  baize  cover  of  the 
table  —  the  whole  place  looked  more  like  the  office  of  a 
decayed  notary  than  the  study  of  a  wealthy  nobleman  of 
ancient  lineage.  The  old  gentleman  himself  entered  the 
room  a  few  seconds  after  San  Giacinto  had  been  ushered 
in,  having  slipped  out  to  change  his  coat  when  his  visitor 
was  announced.  It  was  a  fixed  principle  of  his  life  to 
dress  as  well  as  his  neighbours  when  they  could  see  him, 
but  to  wear  threadbare  garments  whenever  he  could  do 
so  unobserved.  He  greeted  San  Giacinto  with  a  grave 
dignity  which  contrasted  strangely  with  the  weakness 
and  excitement  he  had  shown  on  the  previous  night. 

"I  wish  to  speak  to  you  upon  a  delicate  subject," 
began  the  younger  man,  after  seating  himself  upon  one 
of  the  high-backed  chairs  which  cracked  ominously  under 
his  weight. 

"I  am  at  your  service,"  replied  the  old  gentleman, 
inclining  his  head  politely. 

"  I  feel, "  continued  San  Giacinto,  "  that  although  my 


SANT'  ILARIO.  101 

personal  acquaintance  with  you  has  unfortunately  been 
of  short  duration,  the  familiarity  which  exists  between 
your  family  and  mine  will  entitle  what  I  have  to  say  to 
a  share  of  your  consideration.  The  proposal  which  I 
have  to  make  has  perhaps  been  made  by  others  before 
me  and  has  been  rejected.  I  have  the  honour  to  ask  of 
you  the  hand  of  your  daughter. " 

"Faustina,  I  suppose?"  asked  the  old  prince  in  an 
indifferent  tone,  but  looking  sharply  at  his  companion 
out  of  his  small  keen  eyes. 

"Pardon  me,  I  refer  to  Donna  Flavia  Montevarchi. " 

"  Flavia?  "  repeated  the  prince,  in  a  tone  of  unmistak 
able  surprise,  which  however  was  instantly  moderated  to 
the  indifferent  key  again  as  he  proceeded.  "You  see, 
we  have  been  thinking  so  much  about  my  daughter 
Faustina  since  last  night  that  her  name  came  to  my  lips 
quite  naturally." 

"Most  natural,  I  am  sure,"  answered  San  Giacinto; 
who,  however,  had  understood  at  once  that  his  suit  was 
to  have  a  hearing.  He  then  remained  silent. 

"You  wish  to  marry  Flavia,  I  understand,"  remarked 
the  prince  after  a  pause.  "  I  believe  you  are  a  widower, 
Marchese.  I  have  heard  that  you  have  children." 

"Two  boys." 

"Two  boys,  eh?  I  congratulate  you.  Boys,  if  brought 
up  in  Christian  principles,  are  much  less  troublesome 
than  girls.  But,  my  dear  Marchese,  these  same  boys 
are  an  obstacle  —  a  very  serious  obstacle." 

"Less  serious  than  you  may  imagine,  perhaps.  My 
fortune  does  not  come  under  the  law  of  primogeniture. 
There  is  no  Jidei  commissum.  I  can  dispose  of  it  as  I 
please." 

"Eh,  eh!  But  there  must  be  a  provision,"  said 
Montevarchi,  growing  interested  in  the  subject. 

"  That  shall  be  mutual, "  replied  San  Giacinto,  gravely. 

"I  suppose  you  mean  to  refer  to  my  daughter's  por 
tion,"  returned  the  other  with  more  indifference.  "It  is 
not  much,  you  know  —  scarcely  worth  mentioning.  I 
am  bound  to  tell  you  that,  in  honour." 

"We  must  certainly  discuss  the  matter,  if  you  are 
inclined  to  consider  my  proposal." 

"Well,   you  know  what  young  women's  dowries  are 


102  SANT'  ILARIO. 

in  these  days,  rny  dear  Marchese.  We  are  none  of  us 
very  rich." 

"I  will  make  a  proposal,"  said  San  Giacinto.  "You 
shall  give  your  daughter  a  portion.  Whatever  be  the 
amount,  up  to  a  reasonable  limit,  which  you  choose  to 
give,  I  will  settle  a  like  sum  in  such  a  manner  that  at 
my  death  it  shall  revert  to  her,  and  to  her  children  by 
me,  if  she  have  any." 

"That  amounts  merely  to  settling  upon  herself  the 
dowry  I  give  her, "  replied  Monte  varchi,  sharply.  "  I  give 
you  a  scudo  for  your  use.  You  settle  my  scudo  upon 
your  wife,  that  is  all." 

"Not  at  all,"  returned  San  Giacinto.  "I  do  not  wish 
to  have  control  of  her  dowry " 

"  The  devil !  Oh  —  I  see  —  how  stupid  of  me  —  I  am 
indeed  so  old  that  I  cannot  count  any  more !  How  could 
I  make  such  a  mistake?  Of  course,  it  would  be  exactly 
as  you  say.  Of  course  it  would." 

"It  would  not  be  so  as  a  general  rule,"  said  San 
Giacinto,  calmly,  "  because  most  men  would  not  consent 
to  such  an  arrangement.  That,  however,  is  my  pro 
posal." 

"  Oh !  For  the  sake  of  Flavia,  a  man  would  do  much, 
I  am  sure,"  answered  the  prince,  who  began  to  think 
that  his  visitor  was  in  love  with  the  girl,  incredible  as 
such  a  thing  appeared  to  him.  The  younger  man  made 
no  answer  to  this  remark,  however,  and  waited  for  Monte- 
varchi  to  state  his  terms. 

"  How  much  shall  we  say  ?  "  asked  the  latter  at  length. 

"  That  shall  be  for  you  to  decide.  Whatever  you  give 
I  will  give,  if  I  am  able." 

"  Ah,  yes !  But  how  am  I  to  know  what  you  are  able 
to  give,  dear  Marchese?"  The  prince  suspected  that 
San  Giacinto's  offer,  if  he  could  be  induced  to  make  one, 
would  not  be  very  large. 

"  Am  I  to  understand, "  inquired  San  Giacinto,  "  that, 
if  I  name  the  amount  to  be  settled  so  that  at  my  death 
it  goes  to  my  wife  and  her  children  by  me  for  ever,  you 
will  agree  to  settle  a  like  sum  upon  Donna  Flavia  in  her 
own  right?  If  so,  I  will  propose  what  I  think  fair." 

Montevarchi  looked  keenly  at  his  visitor  for  some 
moments,  then  looked  away  and  hesitated.  He  was  very 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  103 

anxious  to  marry  Flavia  at  once,  and  he  had  many  rea 
sons  for  supposing  that  San  Giacinto  was  not  very  rich.. 

"How  about  the  title?"  he  asked  suddenly. 

"  My  title,  of  course,  goes  to  my  eldest  son  by  my  first 
marriage.  But  if  you  are  anxious  on  that  score  I  think 
my  cousin  would  willingly  confer  one  of  his  upon  the 
eldest  son  of  your  daughter.  It  would  cost  him  nothing, 
and  would  be  a  sort  of  compensation  to  me  for  my  great 
grandfather's  folly." 

"How?"  asked  Montevarchi.     "I  do  not  understand." 

"  I  supposed  you  knew  the  story.  I  am  the  direct 
descendant  of  the  elder  branch.  There  was  an  agree 
ment  between  two  brothers  of  the  family,  by  which  the 
elder  resigned  the  primogeniture  in  favour  of  the  younger 
who  was  then  married.  The  elder,  who  took  the  San 
Giacinto  title,  married  late  in  life  and  I  am  his  great- 
grandson.  If  he  had  not  acted  so  foolishly  I  should  be 
in  my  cousin's  shoes.  You  see  it  would  be  natural  for 
him  to  let  me  have  some  disused  title  for  one  of  my 
children  in  consideration  of  this  fact.  He  has  about  a 
hundred,  I  believe.  You  could  ask  him,  if  you  please." 

San  Giacinto's  grave  manner  assured  Montevarchi  of 
the  truth  of  the  story.  He  hesitated  a  moment  longer, 
and  then  made  up  his  mind. 

"I  agree  to  your  proposal,  my  dear  Marchese,"  he 
said,  with  unusual  blandness  of  manner. 

"  I  will  settle  one  hundred  and  fifty  thousand  scudi  in 
the  way  I  stated,"  said  San  Giacinto,  simply.  The 
prince  started  from  his  chair. 

"  One  —  hundred  —  and  —  fifty  —  thousand ! "  he  re 
peated  slowly.  "Why,  it  is  a  fortune  in  itself!  Dear 
me !  I  had  no  idea  you  would  name  anything  so  large 


"  Seven  thousand  five  hundred  scudi  a  year,  at  five 
percent,"  remarked  the  younger  man  in  a  businesslike 
tone.  "You  give  the  same.  That  will  insure  our  chil 
dren  an  income  of  fifteen  thousand  scudi.  It  is  not 
colossal,  but  it  should  suffice.  Besides,  I  have  not  said 
that  I  would  not  leave  them  more,  if  I  chanced  to  have 
more  to  leave." 

The  prince  had  sunk  back  into  his  chair,  and  sat 
drumming  on  the  table  with  his  long  thin  fingers.  His" 


104  SANT'  ILARIO. 

face  wore  an  air  of  mingled  surprise  and  bewilderment. 
To  tell  the  truth,  he  had  expected  that  San  Giacinto 
would  name  about  fifty  thousand  as  the  sum  requisite. 
He  did  not  know  whether  to  be  delighted  at  the  prospect 
of  marrying  his  daughter  so  well  or  angry  at  the  idea  of 
having  committed  himself  to  part  with  so  much  money. 

"That  is  much  more  than  I  gave  my  other  daughters," 
he  said  at  last,  in  a  tone  of  hesitation. 

"Did  you  give  the  money  to  them  or  to  their  hus 
bands?"  inquired  San  Giacinto. 

"To  their  husbands,  of  course." 

"Then  allow  me  to  point  out  that  you  will  now  be 
merely  settling  money  in  your  own  family,  and  that  the 
case  is  very  different.  Not  only  that,  but  I  am  settling 
the  same  sum  upon  your  family,  instead  of  taking  your 
money  for  my  own  use.  You  are  manifestly  the  gainer 
by  the  transaction." 

"  It  would  be  the  same,  then,  if  I  left  Flavia  the  money 
at  my  death,  since  it  remains  in  the  family,"  suggested 
the  prince,  who  sought  an  escape  from  his  bargain. 

"Not  exactly,"  argued  San  Giacinto.  "First  there  is 
the  yearly  interest  until  your  death,  which  I  trust  is  yet 
very  distant.  And  then  there  is  the  uncertainty  of 
human  affairs.  It  will  be  necessary  that  you  invest  the 
money  in  trust,  as  I  shall  do,  at  the  time  of  signing  the 
contract.  Otherwise  there  would  be  no  fairness  in 
the  arrangement." 

"  So  you  say  that  you  are  descended  from  the  elder 
branch  of  the  Saracinesca.  How  strange  are  the  ways 
of  Providence,  my  dear  Marchese ! " 

"  It  was  a  piece  of  great  folly  on  the  part  of  my  great 
grandfather, "  replied  the  other,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"  You  should  never  say  that  a  man  will  not  marry  until 
he  is  dead." 

"  Ah  no !  The  ways  of  heaven  are  inscrutable !  It  is 
not  for  us  poor  mortals  to  attempt  to  change  them.  I 
suppose  that  agreement  of  which  you  speak  was  made  in 
proper  form  and  quite  regular." 

"  I  presume  so,  since  no  effort  was  ever  made  to  change 
the  dispositions  established  by  it." 

"I  suppose  so  —  I  suppose  so,  dear  Marchese.  It 
would  be  very  interesting  to  see  those  papers." 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  105 

"My  cousin  has  them,"  said  San  Giacinto.  "I  dare 
say  he  will  not  object.  But,  pardon  me  if  I  return  to  a 
subject  which  is  very  near  my  heart.  Do  I  understand 
that  you  consent  to  the  proposal  I  have  made?  If  so, 
we  might  make  arrangements  for  a  meeting  to  take  place 
between  our  notaries." 

"One  hundred  and  fifty  thousand,"  said  Montevarchi, 
slowly  rubbing  his  pointed  chin  with  his  bony  fingers. 
"  Five  per  cent  —  seven  thousand  five  hundred  —  a  mint 
of  money,  Signor  Marchese,  a1  mint  of  money!  And 
these  are  hard  times.  What  a  rich  man  you  must  be, 
to  talk  so  lightly  about  such  immense  sums !  Well,  well 
—  you  are  very  eloquent,  I  must  consent,  and  by  strict 
economy  I  may  perhaps  succeed  in  recovering  the  loss." 

"You  must  be  aware  that  it  is  not  really  a  loss," 
argued  San  Giacinto,  "  since  it  is  to  remain  with  your 
daughter  and  her  children,  and  consequently  with  your 
family." 

"Yes,  I  know.  But  money  is  money,  my  friend," 
exclaimed  the  prince,  laying  his  right  hand  on  the  old 
green  tablecover  and  slowly  drawing  his  crooked  nails, 
over  the  cloth,  as  though  he  would  like  to  squeeze  gold 
out  of  the  dusty  wool.  There  was  something  almost 
fierce  in  his  tone,  too,  as  he  uttered  the  words,  and  his 
small  eyes  glittered  unpleasantly.  He  knew  well  enough 
that  he  was  making  a  good  bargain  and  that  San  Giacinto 
was  a  better  match  than  he  had  ever  hoped  to  get  for 
Flavia.  So  anxious  was  he,  indeed,  to  secure  the  prize 
that  he  entirely  abstained  from  asking  any  questions 
concerning  San  Giacinto's  past  life,  whereby  some  obsta 
cle  might  have  been  raised  to  the  intended  marriage. 
He  promised  himself  that  the  wedding  should  take  place 
at  once. 

"  It  is  understood, "  he  continued,  after  a  pause,  "  that 
we  or  our  notaries  shall  appear  with  the  money  in  cash, 
and  that  it  shall  be  immediately  invested  as  we  shall 
jointly  decide,  the  settlements  being  made  at  the  same 
time  and  on  the  spot." 

"Precisely  so,"  replied  San  Giacinto.  "No  money,  no 
contract. " 

"  In  that  case  I  will  inform  my  daughter  of  my  decis 
ion." 


106  SANT'  ILABIO. 

"  I  shall  be  glad  to  avail  myself  of  an  early  opportu 
nity  to  pay  my  respects  to  Donna  Flavia." 

"  The  wedding  might  take  place  on  the  30th  of  Novem 
ber,  my  dear  Marchese.  The  1st  of  December  is  Advent 
Sunday,  and  no  marriages  are  permitted  during  Advent 
without  a  special  licence." 

"  An  expensive  affair,  doubtless,"  remarked  San  Gia- 
cinto,  gravely,  in  spite  of  his  desire  to  laugh. 

"Yes.  Five  scudi  at  least,"  answered  Montevarchi, 
impressively. 

"Let  us  by  all  means  be  economical." 

"  The  Holy  Church  is  very  strict  about  these  matters, 
and  you  may  as  well  keep  the  money." 

"I  will,"  replied  San  Giacinto,  rising  to  go.  "Do  not 
let  me  detain  you  any  longer.  Pray  accept  my  warmest 
thanks,  and  allow  me  to  say  that  I  shall  consider  it  a 
very  great  honour  to  become  your  son-in-law." 

"Ah,  indeed,  you  are  very  good,  my  dear  Marchese. 
As  for  me  I  need  consolation.  Consider  a  father's  feel 
ings,  when  he  consigns  his  beloved  daughter  —  Flavia  is 
an  angel  upon  earth,  my  friend  —  when,  I  say,  a  father 
gives  his  dear  child,  whom  he  loves  as  the  apple  of  his 
eye,  to  be  carried  off  by  a  man  —  a  man  even  of  your 
worth!  When  your  children  are  grown  up,  you  will 
understand  what  I  suffer." 

"I  quite  understand,"  said  San  Giacinto  in  serious 
tones.  "  It  shall  be  the  endeavour  of  my  life  to  make 
you  forget  your  loss.  May  I  have  the  honour  of  calling 
to-morrow  at  this  time?" 

"Yes,  my  dear  Marchese,  yes,  my  dear  son  —  forgive 
a  father's  tenderness.  To-morrow  at  this  time,  and 

"  he  hesitated.  "  And  then  —  some  time  before  the 

ceremony,  perhaps  —  you  will  give  iis  the  pleasure  of 
your  company  at  breakfast,  I  am  sure,  will  you  not?  We 
are  very  simple  people,  but  we  are  hospitable  in  our 
quiet  way.  Hospitality  is  a  virtue,"  he  sighed  a  little. 
"A  necessary  virtue,"  he  added  with  some  emphasis 
upon  the  adjective. 

"  It  will  give  me  great  pleasure,"  replied  San  Giacinto. 

Therewith  he  left  the  room  and  a  few  moments  later 
was  walking  slowly  homewards,  revolving  in  his  mind 
the  probable  results  of  his  union  with  the  Montevarchi 
family. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  107 

When  Montevarclii  was  alone,  lie  smiled  pleasantly  to 
himself,  and  took  out  of  a  secret  drawer  a  large  book  of 
accounts,  in  the  study  of  which  he  spent  nearly  half  an 
hour,  with  evident  satisfaction.  Having  carefully  locked 
up  the  volume,  and  returned  the  sliding  panel  to  its 
place,  he  sent  for  his  wife,  who  presently  appeared. 

"Sit  down,  Guendalina,"  he  said.  "I  will  change  my 
coat,  and  then  I  have  something  important  to  say  to 
you." 

He  had  quite  forgotten  the  inevitable  change  in  his 
satisfaction  over  the  interview  with  San  Giacinto,  but 
the  sight  of  the  princess  recalled  the  necessity  for  econ 
omy.  It  had  been  a  part  of  the  business  of  his  life  to 
set  her  a  good  example  in  this  respect.  When  he  came 
back  he  seated  himself  before  her. 

"  My  dear,  I  have  got  a  husband  for  Flavia, "  were  his 
first  words. 

"At  last!"  exclaimed  the  princess.  "I  hope  he  is 
presentable, "  she  added.  She  knew  that  she  could  trust 
her  husband  in  the  matter  of  fortune. 

"The  new  Saracinesca  —  the  Marchese  di  San  Gia 
cinto." 

Princess  Monte varchi's  ruddy  face  expressed  the 
greatest  astonishment,  and  her  jaw  dropped  as  she 
stared  at  the  old  gentleman. 

"  A  pauper ! "  she  exclaimed  when  she  had  recovered 
herself  enough  to  speak. 

"  Perhaps,  Guendalina  mia  —  but  he  settles  a  hundred 
and  fifty  thousand  scudi  011  Flavia  and  her  heirs  for  ever, 
the  money  to  be  paid  on  the  signing  of  the  contract. 
That  does  not  look  like  pauperism.  Of  course,  under 
the  circumstances  I  agreed  to  do  the  same.  It  is  settled 
on  Flavia,  do  you  understand?  He  does  not  want  a  penny 
of  it,  not  a  penny!  Trust  your  husband  for  a  serious 
man  of  business,  Guendalina." 

"  Have  you  spoken  to  Flavia?  It  certainly  looks  like 
a  good  match.  There  is  no  doubt  about  his  being  of  the 
Saracinesca,  of  course.  How  could  there  be?  They  have 
taken  him  to  their  hearts.  But  how  will  Flavia  behave?  " 

"  What  a  foolish  question,  my  dear !  "  exclaimed  Mon- 
tevarchi.  "  How  easily  one  sees  that  you  are  English ! 
She  will  be  delighted,  I  presume.  And  if  not,  what 
difference  does  it  make?" 


108  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"  I  would  not  have  married  you  against  my  will,  Lo- 
tario,"  observed  the  princess. 

"For  my  part,  I  had  no  choice.  My  dear  father  said 
simply,  'My  son,  you  will  pay  your  respects  to  that 
young  lady,  who  is  to  be  your  wife.  If  you  wish  to 
marry  any  one  else,  I  will  lock  you  up. '  And  so  I  did. 
Have  I  not  been  a  faithful  husband  to  you,  Guendalina, 
through  more  than  thirty  years?" 

The  argument  was  unanswerable,  and  Montevarchi  had 
employed  it  each  time  one  of  his  children  was  married. 
In  respect  of  faithfulness,  at  least,  he  had  been  a  model 
husband. 

"  It  is  sufficient, "  he  added,  willing  to  make  a  conces 
sion  to  his  wife's  foreign  notions,  "that  there  should  be 
love  on  the  one  side,  and  Christian  principles  on  the 
other.  I  can  assure  you  that  San  Giacinto  is  full  of  love, 
and  as  for  Flavia,  my  dear,  has  she  not  been  educated 
by  you?" 

"  As  for  Flavia' s  Christian  principles,  my  dear  Lotario, 
I  only  hope  they  may  suffice  for  her  married  life.  She  is 
a  terrible  child  to  have  at  home.  But  San  Giacinto  looks 
like  a  determined  man.  I  shall  never  forget  his  kindness 
in  searching  for  Faustina  last  night.  He  was  devotion 
itself,  and  I  should  not  have  been  surprised  had  he 
wished  to  marry  her  instead." 

"  That  exquisite  creature  is  reserved  for  a  young  friend 
of  ours,  Guendalina.  Do  me  the  favour  never  to  speak 
of  her  marrying  any  one  else." 

The  princess  was  silent  for  a  moment,  and  then  began 
to  make  a  series  of  inquiries  concerning  the  proposed 
bridegroom,  which  it  is  unnecessary  to  recount. 

"  And  now  we  will  send  for  Flavia, "  said  Montevar 
chi,  at  last. 

"Would  it  not  be  best  that  I  should  tell  her  ?"  asked 
his  wife. 

"  My  dear, "  he  replied  sternly,  "  when  matters  of  grave 
importance  have  been  decided  it  is  the  duty  of  the  head 
of  the  house  to  communicate  the  decision  to  the  persons 
concerned. " 

So  Flavia  was  sent  for,  and  appeared  shortly,  her 
pretty  face  and  wicked  black  eyes  expressing  both  sur 
prise  and  anticipation.  She  was  almost  as  dark  as  San 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  109 

Giacinto  himself,  though  of  a  very  different  type.  Her 
small  nose  had  an  upward  turn  which  disturbed  her 
mother's  ideas  of  the  fitness  of  things,  and  her  thick 
black  hair  waved  naturally  over  her  forehead.  Her  figure 
was  graceful  and  her  movements  quick  and  spontaneous. 
The  redness  of  her  lips  showed  a  strong  vitality,  which 
was  further  confirmed  by  the  singular  brightness  of  her 
eyes.  She  was  no  beauty,  especially  in  a  land  where  the 
dark  complexion  predominates,  but  she  was  very  pretty 
and  possessed  something  of  that  mysterious  quality 
which  charms  without  exciting  direct  admiration. 

"Flavia,"  said  her  father,  addressing  her  in  solemn 
tones,  "you  are  to  be  married,  my  dear  child.  I  have 
sent  for  you  at  once,  because  there  was  no  time  to  be 
lost,  seeing  that  the  wedding  must  take  place  before  the 
beginning  of  Advent.  The  news  will  probably  give  you 
pleasure,  but  I  trust  you  will  reflect  upon  the  solemnity 
of  such  engagements  and  lay  aside " 

"Would  you  mind  telling  me  the  name  of  my  hus 
band?"  inquired  Flavia,  interrupting  the  paternal  lec 
ture. 

"The  man  I  have  selected  for  my  son-in-law  is  one 
whom  all  women  would  justly  envy  you,  were  it  not  that 
envy  is  an  atrocious  sin,  and  one  which  I  trust  you  will 
henceforth  endeavour " 

"  To  drown,  crush  out  and  stamp  upon  in  the  pursuit 
of  true  Christian  principles,"  said  Flavia  with  a  laugh. 
"  I  know  all  about  envy.  It  is  one  of  the  seven  deadlies. 
I  can  tell  you  them  all,  if  you  like." 

"  Flavia,  I  am  amazed !  "  cried  the  princess,  severely. 

"I  had  not  expected  this  conduct  of  my  daughter," 
said  Montevarchi.  "And  though  I  am  at  present  obliged 
to  overlook  it,  I  can  certainly  not  consider  it  pardonable. 
You  will  listen  with  becoming  modesty  and  respect  to 
what  I  have  to  say." 

"I  am  all  modesty,  respect  and  attention  —  but  I 
would  like  to  know  his  name,  papa  —  please  consider 
that  pardonable ! " 

"  I  do  not  know  why  I  should  not  tell  you  that,  and  I 
shall  certainly  give  you  all  such  information  concerning 
him  as  it  is  proper  that  you  should  receive.  The  fact 
that  he  is  a  widower  need  not  surprise  you,  for  in  the 


110  SANT'  ILARIO. 

inscrutable  ways  of  Providence  some  men  are  deprived 
of  their  wives  sooner  than  others.  Nor  should  his  age 
appear  to  you  in  the  light  of  an  obstacle  —  indeed  there 
are  no  obstacles " 

"A  widower  —  old  —  probably  bald  —  I  can  see  him 
already.  Is  he  fat,  papa?  " 

"  He  approaches  the  gigantic ;  but  as  I  have  often  told 
you,  Flavia,  the  qualities  a  wise  father  should  seek  in 
choosing  a  husband  for  his  child  are  not  dependent  upon 
outward " 

"For  heaven's  sake,  mamma,"  cried  Flavia,  "tell  me 
the  creature's  name! " 

"The  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto  —  let  your  father 
speak,  and  do  not  interrupt  him." 

"While  you  both  insist  on  interrupting  me,"  said 
Montevarchi,  "it  is  impossible  for  me  to  express  my 
self." 

"  I  wish  it  were  !  "  observed  Flavia,  under  her  breath. 
"  You  are  speaking  of  the  Saracinesca  cousin,  San  Gia 
cinto?  Not  so  bad  after  all." 

"It  is  very  unbecoming  in  a  young  girl  to  speak  of 
men  by  their  last  names " 

"Giovanni,  then.     Shall  I  call  him  Giovanni?" 

"Flavia!"  exclaimed  the  princess.  "How  can  you  be 
so  undutiful !  You  should  speak  of  him  as  the  Marchese 
di  San  Giacinto." 

"  Silence !  "  cried  the  prince.  "  I  will  not  be  inter 
rupted!  The  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto  will  call  to-mor 
row,  after  breakfast,  and  will  pay  his  respects  to  you. 
You  will  receive  him  in  a  proper  spirit." 

"Yes,  papa,"  replied  Flavia,  suddenly  growing  meek, 
and  folding  her  hands  submissively. 

"He  has  behaved  with  unexampled  liberality,"  con 
tinued  Montevarchi,  "  and  I  need  hardly  say  that  as  the 
honour  of  our  house  was  concerned  I  have  not  allowed 
myself  to  be  outdone.  Since  you  refuse  to  listen  to  the 
words  of  fatherly  instruction  which  it  is  natural  I  should 
speak  on  this  occasion,  you  will  at  least  remember  that 
your  future  husband  is  entirely  such  a  man  as  I  would 
have  chosen,  that  he  is  a  Saracinesca,  as  well  as  a  rich 
man,  and  that  he  has  been  accustomed  in  the  women  of 
his  family  to  a  greater  refinement  of  manner  than  you 


SANT'  ILABIO.  Ill 

generally  think  fit  to  exhibit  in  the  presence  of  your 
father." 

"Yes,  papa.     May  I  go,  now?" 

"  If  your  conscience  will  permit  you  to  retire  without 
a  word  of  gratitude  to  your  parents,  who  in  spite  of  the 
extreme  singularities  of  your  behaviour  have  at  last 
provided  you  with  a  suitable  husband ;  if,  I  say,  you  are 
capable  of  such  ingratitude,  then,  Flavia,  you  may  cer 
tainly  go." 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  papa,  that  I  thank  you  very  much 
for  my  husband,  and  mamma,  too." 

Thereupon  she  kissed  her  father's  and  her  mother's 
hands  with  great  reverence  and  turned  to  leave  the 
room.  Her  gravity  forsook  her,  however,  before  she 
reached  the  door. 

"  Evviva !  Hurrah !  "  she  cried,  suddenly  skipping 
across  the  intervening  space  and  snapping  her  small 
fingers  like  a  pair  of  castanets.  "Evviva!  Married  at 
last !  Hurrah !  "  And  with  this  parting  salute  she  dis 
appeared. 

When  she  was  gone,  her  father  and  mother  looked  at 
each  other,  as  they  had  looked  many  times  before  in  the 
course  of  Flavia's  life.  They  had  found  little  difficulty 
in  bringing  up  their  other  children,  but  Flavia  was  a  mys 
tery  to  them  both.  The  princess  would  have  understood 
well  enough  a  thorough  English  girl,  full  of  life  and 
animal  spirits,  though  shy  and  timid  in  the  world,  as  the 
elderly  lady  had  herself  been  in  her  youth.  But  Flavia's 
character  was  incomprehensible  to  her  northern  soul. 
Montevarchi  understood  the  girl  better,  but  loved  her 
even  less.  What  seemed  odd  in  her  to  his  wife,  to  him 
seemed  vulgar  and  ill-bred,  for  he  would  have  had  her 
like  the  rest,  silent  and  respectful  in  his  presence,  and 
in  awe  of  him  as  the  head  of  the  house,  if  not  in  fact,  at 
least  in  manner.  But  Flavia's  behaviour  was  in  the  eyes 
of  Eomans  a  very  serious  objection  to  her  as  a  wife  for 
any  of  their  sons,  for  in  their  view  moral  worth  was 
necessarily  accompanied  by  outward  gravity  and  deco 
rum,  and  a  light  manner  could  only  be  the  visible  sign 
of  a  giddy  heart. 

"  If  only  he  does  not  find  out  what  she  is  like !  "  ex 
claimed  the  princess  at  last. 


112  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

"  I  devoutly  trust  that  heaven  in  its  mercy  may  avert 
such  a  catastrophe  from  our  house,"  replied  Montevarchi, 
who,  however,  seemed  to  be  occupied  in  adding  together 
certain  sums  upon  his  fingers. 

San  Giacinto  understood  Flavia  better  than  either  of 
her  parents;  and  although  his  marriage  with  her  was 
before  all  things  a  part  of  his  plan  for  furthering  his 
worldly  interests,  it  must  be  confessed  that  he  had  a 
stronger  liking  for  the  girl  than  her  father  would  have 
considered  indispensable  in  such  affairs.  The  matter 
was  decided  at  once,  and  in  a  few  days  the  preliminaries 
were  settled  between  the  lawyers,  while  Flavia  exerted 
the  utmost  pressure  possible  upon  the  parental  purse  in 
the  question  of  the  trousseau. 

It  may  seem  strange  that  at  the  time  when  all  Eome 
was  convulsed  by  an  internal  revolution,  and  when  the 
temporal  power  appeared  to  be  in  very  great  danger, 
Montevarchi  and  San  Giacinto  should  have  been  able  to 
discuss  so  coolly  the  conditions  of  the  marriage,  and  even 
to  fix  the  wedding  day.  The  only  possible  explanation 
of  this  fact  is  that  neither  of  them  believed  in  the  revo 
lution  at  all.  It  is  a  noticeable  characteristic  of  people 
who  are  fond  of  money  that  they  do  not  readily  believe 
in  any  great  changes.  They  are  indeed  the  most  conser 
vative  of  men,  and  will  count  their -profits  at  moments 
of  peril  with  a  coolness  which  would  do  honour  to  veteran 
soldiers.  Those  who  possess  money  put  their  faith  in 
money  and  give  no  credence  to  rumours  of  revolution 
which  are  not  backed  by  cash.  Once  or  twice  in  history 
they  have  been  wrong,  but  it  must  be  confessed  that  they 
have  very  generally  been  right. 

As  for  San  Giacinto,  his  own  interests  were  infinitely 
more  absorbing  to  his  attention  than  those  of  the  world 
at  large,  and  being  a  man  of  uncommonly  steady  nerves, 
it  seems  probable  that  he  would  have  calmly  pursued  his 
course  in  the  midst  of  much  greater  disturbances  than 
those  which  affected  Eome  at  that  time. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  113 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

When  Anastase  Gouache  was  at  last  relieved  from 
duty  and  went  home  in  the  gray  dawn  of  the  twenty- 
third,  he  lay  down  to  rest  expecting  to  reflect  upon  the 
events  of  the  night.  The  last  twelve  hours  had  been  the 
most  eventful  of  his  life ;  indeed  less  than  that  time  had 
elapsed  since  he  had  bid  farewell  to  Faustina  in  the 
drawing-room  of  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca,  and  yet  the 
events  which  had  occurred  in  that  short  space  had  done 
much  towards  making  him  another  man.  The  change 
had  begun  two  years  earlier,  and  had  progressed  slowly 
until  it  was  completed  all  at  once  by  a  chain  of  unfore 
seen  circumstances.  He  realised  the  fact,  and  as  this 
change  was  not  disagreeable  to  him  he  set  himself  to 
think  about  it.  Instead  of  reviewing  what  had  hap 
pened,  however,  he  did  what  was  much  more  natural  in 
his  case,  he  turned  upon  his  pillow  and  fell  fast  asleep. 
He  was  younger  than  his  years,  though  he  counted  less 
than  thirty,  and  his  happy  nature  had  not  yet  formed  that 
horrible  habit  of  wakefulness  which  will  not  yield  even 
to  bodily  fatigue.  He  lay  down  and  slept  like  a  boy, 
disturbed  by  no  dreams  and  troubled  by  no  shadowy 
revival  of  dangers  or  emotions  past. 

He  had  placed  a  gulf  between  himself  and  his  former 
life.  What  had  passed  between  him  and  Faustina,  might 
under  other  circumstances  have  become  but  a  romantic 
episode  in  the  past,  to  be  thought  of  with  a  certain  ten 
der  regret,  half  fatuous,  half  genuine,  whenever  the 
moonlight  chanced  to  cast  the  right  shadow  and  the 
artist's  mind  was  in  the  contemplative  mood.  The  pecul 
iar  smell  of  broken  masonry,  when  it  is  a  little  damp, 
would  recall  the  impression,  perhaps ;  an  old  wall  knocked 
to  pieces  by  builders  would,  through  his  nostrils,  bring 
vividly  before  him  that  midnight  meeting  amid  the  ruins 
of  the  barracks,  just  as  the  savour  of  a  certain  truffle 
might  bring  back  the  memory  of  a  supper  at  Voisin's,  or 
as,  twenty  years  hence,  the  pasty  grittiness  of  rough  maize 
bread  would  make  him  remember  the  days  when  he  was 
chasing  brigands  in  the  Samnite  hills.  But  this  was  not 


114  SANT'  ILARIO. 

to  be  the  case  this  time.  There  was  more  matter  for 
reminiscence  than  a  ray  of  moonlight  on  a  fair  face,  or 
the  smell  of  crumbling  mortar. 

There  was  a  deep  and  sincere  devotion  on  both  sides, 
in  two  persons  both  singularly  capable  of  sincerity,  and 
both  foresaw  that  the  result  of  this  love  could  never  be 
indifference.  The  end  could  only  be  exceeding  happiness, 
or  mortal  sorrow.  Anastase  and  Faustina  were  not  only 
themselves  in  earnest;  each  knew  instinctively  that  the 
other  would  be  faithful,  a  condition  extremely  rare  in 
ordinary  cases.  Each  recognised  that  the  obstacles  were 
enormous,  but  neither  doubted  for  a  moment  that  means 
would  be  found  to  overcome  them. 

In  some  countries  the  marriage  of  these  two  would 
have  been  a  simple  matter  enough.  A  man  of  the  world, 
honourable,  successful,  beginning  to  be  famous,  pos 
sessed  of  some  fortune,  might  aspire  to  marry  any  one  he 
pleased  in  lands  where  it  is  not  a  disgrace  to  have  ac 
quired  the  means  of  subsistence  by  one's  own  talent  and 
industry.  Artists  and  poets  have  sometimes  made  what 
are  called  great  marriages.  But  in  Rome,  twenty  years 
ago,  things  were  very  different.  It  is  enough  to  consider 
the  way  in  which  Montevarchi  arranged  to  dispose  of  his 
daughter  Flavia  to  understand  the  light  in  which  he 
would  have  regarded  Faustina's  marriage  with  Anastase 
Gouache.  The  very  name  of  Gouache  would  have  raised 
a  laugh  in  the  Montevarchi  household  had  any  one  sug 
gested  that  a  woman  of  that  traditionally  correct  race 
could  ever  make  it  her  own.  There  were  persons  in 
Rome,  indeed,  who  might  have  considered  the  matter 
more  leniently.  Corona  Sant'  Ilario  was  one  of  these; 
but  her  husband  and  father-in-law  would  have  opened 
their  eyes  as  wide  as  old  Lotario  Montevarchi  himself, 
had  the  match  been  discussed  before  them.  Their  patri- 
archally  exclusive  souls  would  have  been  shocked  and 
the  dear  fabric  of  their  inborn  prejudices  shaken  to  its 
deepest  foundations.  It  was  bad  enough,  from  the  point 
of  view  of  potential  matrimony,  to  earn  money,  even  if 
one  had  the  right  to  prefix  "Don"  to  one's  baptismal 
name.  But  to  be  no  Don  and  to  receive  coin  for  one's 
labour  was  a  far  more  insurmountable  barrier  against 
intermarriage  with  the  patriarchs  than  hereditary  mad 
ness,  toothless  old  age,  leprosy,  or  lack  of  money. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  115 

Gouache  had  acquired  enough  knowledge  of  Roman 
life  to  understand  this,  and  nothing  short  of  physical 
exhaustion  would  have  prevented  his  spending  his  leisure 
in  considering  the  means  of  overcoming  such  stupendous 
difficulties.  When  he  awoke  his  situation  presented 
itself  clearly  enough  to  his  mind,  however,  and  occupied 
his  thoughts  throughout  the  remainder  of  the  day.  Owing 
to  the  insurrection  his  departure  was  delayed  for  twenty- 
four  hours,  and  his  duty  was  likely  to  keep  him  busily 
engaged  during  the  short  time  that  remained  to  him.  The 
city  was  in  a  state  of  siege  and  there  would  be  a  per 
petual  service  of  patrols,  sentries  and  general  main 
tenance  of  order.  The  performance  of  labours  almost 
mechanical  left  him  plenty  of  time  for  reflection,  though 
he  found  it  hard  to  spare  a  moment  in  which  to  see  any 
of  his  friends. 

He  was  very  anxious  to  meet  the  Princess  Sant'  Ilario, 
whose  conduct  on  the  previous  night  had  seriously 
alarmed  him.  It  was  to  her  that  he  looked  for  assist 
ance  in  his  troubles  and  the  consciousness  that  she  was 
angry  with  him  was  a  chief  source  of  distress.  In  the 
course  of  the  few  words  he  had  exchanged  with  her,  she 
had  made  it  sufficiently  clear  to  him  that  although  she 
disapproved  in  principle  of  his  attachment  to  Faustina, 
she  would  do  nothing  to  hinder  his  marriage  if  he  should 
be  able  to  overcome  the  obstinacy  of  the  girl's  parents. 
He  was  at  first  at  a  loss  to  explain  her  severity  to  him 
when  she  had  left  her  house  to  take  Faustina  home. 
Being  wholly  innocent  of  any  share  in  the  latter's  mad 
course,  it  did  not  at  first  enter  his  mind  that  Corona 
could  attribute  to  him  any  blame  in  the  matter.  On  the 
contrary,  he  knew  that  if  the  girl's  visit  to  the  ruined 
barracks  remained  a  secret,  this  would  be  owing  quite 
as  much  to  his  own  discretion  and  presence  of  mind  as 
to  the  princess's  willingness  to  help  him.  Not  a  little, 
too,  was  due  to  good  luck,  since  the  least  difference  in  the 
course  of  events  must  have  led  to  immediate  discovery. 

A  little  thought  led  him  to  a  conclusion  which 
wounded  his  pride  while  it  explained  Corona's  behav 
iour.  It  was  evident  that  she  had  believed  in  a  clandes 
tine  meeting,  prearranged  between  the  lovers  at  the 
instigation  of  Gouache  himself,  and  she  had  probably 


116  SANT'  ILABIO. 

supposed  this  meeting  to  be  only  the  preliminary  to  a 
runaway  match.  How,  indeed,  could  Faustina  have 
expected  to  escape  observation,  even  had  there  been  no 
revolution  in  Eome,  that  night?  Corona  clearly  thought 
that  the  girl  had  never  intended  to  come  back,  that 
Gouache  had  devised  means  for  their  departure,  and  that 
Faustina  had  believed  the  elopement  possible  in  the  face 
of  the  insurrection.  Anastase,  on  finding  himself  in  the 
small  hours  of  the  morning  with  Faustina  on  his  hands 
and  knowing  that  discovery  must  follow  soon  after  day 
break,  had  boldly  brought  her  to  the  Palazzo  Saracin- 
esca  and  had  demanded  Corona's  assistance. 

As  the  artist  thought  the  matter  over,  he  became  more 
and  more  convinced  that  he  had  understood  the  prin 
cess's  conduct,  and  the  reflection  made  him  redden  with 
shame  and  anger.  He  determined  to  seize  the  first 
moment  that  presented  itself  for  an  explanation  with 
the  woman  who  had  wronged  him.  He  unexpectedly 
found  himself  at  liberty  towards  five  o'clock  in  the 
afternoon  and  made  haste  at  once  to  reach  the  Palazzo 
Saracinesca.  Knowing  that  no  one  would  be  allowed  to 
be  in  the  streets  after  dark,  he  felt  sure  of  finding  Corona 
without  visitors,  and  expected  the  most  favourable 
opportunity  for  talking  over  the  subject  which  distressed 
him. 

After  waiting  several  minutes  in  one  of  the  outer  halls 
he  was  ushered  in,  and  to  his  extreme  annoyance  found 
himself  in  the  midst  of  a  family  party.  He  had  not 
counted  upon  the  presence  of  the  men  of  the  household, 
and  the  fact  that  the  baby  was  also  present  did  not  facili 
tate  matters.  Old  Saracinesca  greeted  him  warmly; 
Sant'  Ilario  looked  grave ;  Corona  herself  looked  up  from 
her  game  with  little  Orsino,  nodded  and  uttered  a  word 
of  recognition,  and  then  returned  to  her  occupation. 

Conversation  under  these  circumstances  was  mani 
festly  impossible,  and  Gouache  wished  he  had  not  had 
the  unlucky  idea  of  calling.  There  was  nothing  to  be 
done,  however,  but  to  put  on  a  brave  face  and  make  the 
best  of  it. 

"Well,  Monsieur  Gouache,"  inquired  the  old  prince, 
"and  how  did  you  spend  the  night? " 

He  could  scarcely  have  asked  a  question  better  cal- 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  117 

culated  to  disturb  the  composure  of  every  one  present 
except  the  baby.  Anastase  could  not  help  looking  at 
Corona,  who  looked  instinctively  at  her  husband,  while 
the  latter  gazed  at  Gouache,  wondering  what  he  would 
say.  All  three  turned  a  shade  paler,  and  during  a  very 
few  seconds  there  was  an  awkward  silence. 

"I  spent  the  night  very  uncomfortably,"  replied  Anas 
tase,  after  hesitating  a  little.  "  We  were  driven  from 
pillar  to  post,  repelling  attacks,  doing  sentry  duty, 
clearing  the  streets,  marching  and  countermarching.  It 
was  daylight  when  I  was  relieved." 

"  Indeed ! "  exclaimed  Sant'  Ilario.  "  I  had  supposed 
that  you  had  remained  all  night  at  the  Porta  San  Paolo. 
But  there  are  many  contradictory  accounts.  I  was  in 
some  anxiety  until  I  was  assured  that  you  had  not  been 
blown  up  in  that  infernal  plot." 

Gouache  was  on  the  point  of  asking  who  had  told 
Giovanni  that  he  had  escaped,  but  fortunately  checked 
himself,  and  endeavoured  to  turn  the  conversation  to  the 
disaster  at  the  barracks.  Thereupon  old  Saracinesca, 
whose  blood  was  roused  by  the  atrocity,  delivered  a 
terrible  anathema  against  the  murderous  wretches  who 
had  ruined  the  building,  and  expressed  himself  in  favour 
of  burning  them  alive,  a  fate,  indeed,  far  too  good  for 
them.  Anastase  profited  by  the  old  gentleman's  elo 
quence  to  make  advances  to  the  baby.  Little  Orsino, 
however,  struck  him  a  vigorous  blow  in  the  face  with  his 
tiny  fist  and  yelled  lustily. 

"  He  does  not  like  strangers,"  remarked  Corona,  coldly. 
She  rose  with  the  child  in  her  arms  and  moved  towards 
the  door,  Gouache  following  her  with  the  intention  of 
opening  it  for  her  to  go  out.  The  prince  was  still 
thundering  out  curses  against  the  conspirators,  and 
Anastase  attempted  to  say  a  word  unobserved  as  Corona 
passed  him. 

"  Will  you  not  give  me  a  hearing?  "  he  asked  in  a  low 
tone,  accompanying  his  words  with  an.  imploring  look. 

Corona  raised  her  eyebrows  slightly  as  though  sur 
prised,  but  his  expression  of  genuine  contrition  softened 
her  heart  a  little  and  rendered  her  answer  perhaps  a  trifle 
less  unkind  than  she  had  meant  it  to  be. 

"You  should  be  satisfied  —  since  I  keep  your  secret," 
she  said,  and  passed  quickly  out. 


118  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

When  Gouache  turned  after  closing  the  door  he  was 
aware  that  Sant'  Ilario  had  been  watching  him,  by  the 
fixed  way  in  which  he  was  now  looking  in  another 
direction.  The  Zouave  wished  more  and  more  fervently 
that  he  had  not  come  to  the  house,  but  resolved  to  pro 
long  his  visit  in  the  hope  that  Corona  might  return. 
Sant'  Ilario  was  unaccountably  silent,  but  his  father 
kept  up  a  lively  conversation,  needing  only  an  occasional 
remark  from  Gouache  to  give  a  fillip  to  his  eloquence. 

This  situation  continued  during  nearly  half  an  hour, 
at  the  end  of  which  time  Anastase  gave  up  all  hope  of 
seeing  Corona  again.  The  two  men  evidently  did  not 
expect  her  to  return,  for  they  had  made  themselves 
comfortable  and  had  lighted  their  cigarettes. 

"  Good-bye,  Monsieur  Gouache, "  said  the  old  prince, 
cordially  shaking  him  by  the  hand.  "  I  hope  we  shall 
see  you  back  again  alive  and  well  in  a  few  days." 

While  he  was  speaking  Giovanni  had  rung  the  bell  for 
the  servant  to  show  the  visitor  out,  an  insignificant 
action,  destined  to  produce  a  rather  singular  result. 
Sant'  Ilario  himself,  feeling  that  after  all  he  might  never 
see  Gouache  alive  again,  repented  a  little  of  his  coldness, 
and  while  the  latter  stood  ready  to  go,  detained  him  with 
a  question  as  to  his  destination  on  leaving  the  city. 
This  resulted  in  a  lively  discussion  of  Garibaldi's  prob 
able  movements,  which  lasted  several  minutes. 

Corona  in  the  meantime  had  taken  Orsino  back  to  his 
nurse,  and  had  bidden  her  maid  let  her  know  when  the 
visitor  in  the  drawing-room  was  gone.  The  wToman  went 
to  the  hall,  and  when  Giovanni  rang  the  bell,  returned 
to  inform  her  mistress  of  the  fact,  supposing  that  Gouache 
would  go  at  once.  Corona  waited  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  went  back  to  the  sitting-room,  which  was  at  the 
end  of  the  long  suite  of  apartments.  The  result  was 
that  she  met  Anastase  in  one  of  the  rooms  on  his  way 
out,  preceded  by  the  footman,  who  went  on  towards  the 
hall  after  his  mistress  had  passed.  Corona  and  Gouache 
were  left  face  to  face  and  quite  alone  in  the  huge  dim 
drawing-room.  Gouache  had  found  his  opportunity  and 
did  not  hesitate. 

"Madame,"  he  said,  "I  beg  your  pardon  for  trespass 
ing  on  your  time,  but  I  have  a  serious  word  to  say.  I 


SANT'  ILARIO.  119 

am  going  to  the  frontier  and  am  as  likely  to  be  killed  as 
any  one  else.  On  the  faith  of  a  man  who  may  be  dead 
to-morrow,  I  am  wholly  innocent  of  what  happened  last 
night.  If  I  come  back  I  will  prove  it  to  you  some  day. 
If  not,  will  you  believe  me,  and  not  think  of  me 
unkindly?" 

Corona  hesitated  and  stood  leaning  against  the  heavy 
curtain  of  a  window  for  a  moment.  Though  the  room 
was  very  dim,  she  could  see  the  honest  look  in  the  young 
man's  eyes  and  she  hesitated  before  she  answered.  She 
had  heard  that  day  that  two  of  her  acquaintances  had 
fallen  fighting  against  the  Garibaldians  and  she  knew 
that  Anastase  was  speaking  of  a  very  near  possibility 
when  he  talked  of  being  killed.  There  were  many 
chances  that  he  was  telling  the  truth,  and  she  felt  how 
deeply  she  should  regret  her  unbelief  if  he  should  indeed 
meet  his  fate  before  they  met  again. 

"  You  tell  me  a  strange  thing,"  she  said  at  last.  "  You 
ask  me  to  believe  that  this  poor  girl,  of  her  own  free 
will  and  out  of  love  for  you,  followed  you  out  of  this 
room  last  night  into  the  midst  of  a  revolution.  It  is  a 

hard  thing  to  believe " 

"And  yet  I  implore  you  to  believe  it,  princess.  A 
man  who  should  love  her  less  than  I,  would  be  the  basest 
of  men  to  speak  thus  of  her  love.  God  knows,  if  things 
had  been  otherwise,  I  would  not  have  let  you  know.  But 
was  there  any  other  way  of  taking  her  home?  Did  I 
not  do  the  only  thing  that  was  at  all  possible  to  keep 
last  night's  doings  a  secret?  I  love  her  to  such  a  point 
that  I  glory  in  her  love  for  me.  If  I  could  have  shielded 
her  last  night  by  giving  up  my  life,  you  know  that  I 
would  have  ended  my  existence  that  very  moment.  It 
would  have  done  no  good.  I  had  to  confide  in  some  one, 
and  you,  who  knew  half  my  secret,  since  I  had  told  you 
I  loved  her,  were  the  only  person  who  could  be  allowed 
to  guess  the  remainder.  If  it  could  profit  her  that  you 
should  think  me  a  villain,  you  might  think  me  so  —  even 
you,  whom  I  reverence  beyond  all  women  save  her.  But 
to  let  you  think  so  would  be  to  degrade  her,  and  that 
you  shall  not  do.  You  shall  not  think  that  she  has  been 
so  foolish  as  to  pin  her  faith  on  a  man  who  would  lead 
her  to  destruction  —  ah  !  if  I  loved  her  less  I  could  tell 
you  better  what  I  mean." 


120  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Corona  was  moved  by  his  sincerity,  if  not  by  his 
arguments.  She  saw  all  the  strangeness  of  the  situa 
tion;  how  he  had  been  forced  to  confide  in  some  one, 
and  how  it  seemed  better  in  his  eyes  that  she  should 
know  how  Faustina  had  really  behaved,  than  think  that 
the  young  girl  had  agreed  to  a  premeditated  meeting. 
She  was  touched  and  her  heart  relented. 

"I  believe  you,"  she  said.  "Forgive  me  if  I  have 
wronged  you." 

"  Thank  you,  thank  you,  dear  princess  ! "  cried  Gouache, 
taking  her  hand  and  touching  it  with  his  lips.  "  I  can 
never  thank  you  as  I  would.  And  now,  good-bye  —  I 
am  going.  Will  you  give  me  your  blessing,  as  my  mother 
would?"  He  smiled,  as  he  recalled  the  conversation  of 
the  previous  evening. 

"Good-bye,"  answered  Corona.  "May  all  blessings 
go  with  you."  He  turned  away  and  she  stood  a  moment 
looking  after  him  as  he  disappeared  in  the  gloom. 

She  was  sorry  for  him  in  her  heart  and  repented  a 
little  of  having  treated  him  so  harshly.  And  yet,  as 
soon  as  he  was  gone  she  began  to  doubt  again,  wonder 
ing  vaguely  whether  she  had  not  been  deceived.  There 
was  an  odd  fascination  about  the  soldier-artist  which 
somehow  influenced  her  in  his  favour  when  he  was  pres 
ent,  and  of  which  she  was  not  conscious  until  he  was  out 
of  her  sight.  Now  that  she  was  alone,  she  found  herself 
considering  how  this  peculiar  charm  which  he  possessed 
would  be  likely  to  affect  a  young  girl  like  Faustina,  and 
she  was  obliged  to  acknowledge  that  it  would  account 
well  enough  for  the  latter's  foolish  doings.  She  could 
not  look  into  Gouache's  eyes  and  doubt  what  he  said,  but 
she  found  it  hard  afterwards  to  explain  the  faith  she 
put  in  him. 

She  was  roused  from  her  short  reflection  by  her  hus 
band  who,  without  being  observed  by  her,  had  come  to 
her  side.  Seeing  that  she  did  not  return  to  the  sitting- 
room  when  Gouache  was  gone  he  had  come  in  search  of 
her,  and  by  the  merest  chance  had  overheard  the  last 
words  which  had  passed  between  her  and  Anastase,  and 
had  seen  how  the  latter  fervently  kissed  her  hand.  The 
phrase  in  which  she  had  wished  him  good  luck  rang 
unpleasantly  in  his  ears  and  startled  the  inmost  sensi- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  121 

bilities  of  his  nature.  He  remembered  how  she  had 
blessed  him  once,  in  her  calm,  gentle  way,  on  that 
memorable  night  of  the  Frangipani  ball  nearly  three 
years  before,  and  there  was  a  similarity  between  the 
words  she  had  used  then  and  the  simple  expression  which 
had  now  fallen  from  her  lips. 

Giovanni  stood  beside  her  now  and  laid  his  hand  upon 
her  arm.  It  was  not  his  nature  to  break  out  suddenly 
as  his  father  did,  when  anything  occurred  to  disturb  his 
peace  of  mind.  The  Spanish  blood  he  had  inherited 
from  his  mother  had  imparted  a  profound  reserve  to  his 
character,  which  gave  it  depth  rather  than  coldness.  It 
was  hard  for  him  to  speak  out  violently  when  under  the 
influence  of  emotion,  but  this  very  difficulty  of  finding 
words  and  his  aversion  to  using  them  made  him  more 
sincere,  more  enduring  and  less  forgiving  than  other  men. 
He  could  wait  long  before  he  gave  vent  to  his  feelings, 
but  they  neither  grew  cool  nor  dull  for  the  waiting.  He 
detested  concealment  and  secrecy  more  than  most  people, 
but  his  disinclination  to  speak  of  any  matter  until  he 
was  sure  of  it  had  given  him  the  reputation  of  being 
both  reticent  and  calculating.  Giovanni  now  no  longer 
concealed  from  himself  the  fact  that  he  was  annoyed  by 
what  was  passing,  but  he  denied,  even  in  his  heart,  that 
he  was  jealous.  To  doubt  Corona  would  be  to  upset  the 
whole  fabric  of  his  existence,  which  he  had  founded  upon 
her  love  and  which  had  been  built  up  to  such  great  pro 
portions  during  the  past  three  years.  His  first  impulse 
was  to  ask  an  explanation,  and  it  carried  him  just  far 
enough  to  lay  his  hand  on  his  wife's  arm,  when  it  was 
checked  by  a  multitude  of  reflections  and  unconscious 
arguments  which  altogether  changed  his  determination. 

"I  thought  he  was  gone,"  he  said,  quietly  enough. 

"  So  did  I, "  replied  Corona,  in  a  cooler  tone  than  she 
generally  used  in  speaking  to  her  husband. 

She,  too,  was  annoyed,  for  she  suspected  that  Giovanni 
had  been  watching  her ;  and  since,  on  the  previous  even 
ing  he  had  promised  to  trust  her  altogether  in  this  affair, 
she  looked  upon  his  coming  almost  in  the  light  of  an 
infringement  upon  the  treaty,  and  resented  it  accord 
ingly.  She  did  not  reflect  that  it  was  unlikely  that 
Giovanni  should  expect  her  to  try  to  meet  Gouache  on 


122  SANT'  ILAETO. 

his  way  out,  and  would  therefore  not  think  of  lying  in 
wait  for  her.  His  accidental  coining  seemed  premedi 
tated.  He,  on  his  side,  had  noticed  her  marked  coldness 
to  Anastase  in  the  sitting-room  and  thought  it  contrasted 
very  strangely  with  the  over-friendly  parting  of  which 
he  had  chanced  to  be  a  witness.  Corona,  too,  knew  very 
well  that  the  last  words  spoken  were  capable  of  misin 
terpretation,  and  as  she  had  no  intention  of  telling  her 
husband  Faustina's  story  at  present  she  saw  no  way  Of 
clearing  up  the  situation,  and  therefore  prepared  to 
ignore  it  altogether. 

They  turned  together  and  walked  slowly  back  in  the 
direction  of  the  sitting-room,  neither  speaking  a  word 
until  they  had  almost  reached  the  door.  Then  Giovanni 
stopped  and  looked  at  his  wife. 

"Is  it  part  of  last  night's  secret?"  he  asked,  almost 
indifferently. 

"Yes,"  answered  Corona.  " What  could  you  suppose 
it  was?  I  met  him  by  accident  and  we  exchanged  a  few 
words." 

"  I  know.  I  heard  you  say  good-bye.  I  confess  I  was 
surprised.  I  thought  you  meant  to  be  rude  to  him  when 
we  were  all  together,  but  I  was  mistaken.  I  hope  your 
blessing  will  profit  him,  my  dear ! "  He  spoke  quite 
naturally  and  without  effort. 

"I  hope  so  too,"  returned  Corona.  "You  might  have 
added  yours,  since  you  were  present." 

"To  tell  the  truth,"  said  Giovanni,  with  a  short  laugh, 
"I  fancy  it  might  not  have  been  so  acceptable." 

11  You  talk  very  strangely,  Giovanni ! " 

"Do  I?  It  seems  to  me  quite  natural.  Shall  we  go 
into  the  sitting-room?" 

"Giovanni  —  you  promised  to  trust  me  last  night,  and 
I  promised  to  explain  everything  to  you  some  day.  You 
must  keep  your  promise  wholly  or  not  at  all." 

"  Certainly, "  answered  Sant'  Ilario,  opening  the  door  for 
his  wife  and  thus  forcing  the  conversation  to  end  suddenly, 
since  old  Saracinesca  must  now  hear  whatever  was  said. 

He  would  not  allow  the  situation  to  last,  for  fear  lest 
he  should  say  something  of  which  he  might  repent,  for 
in  spite  of  his  words  he  did  not  wish  to  seem  suspicious. 
Unfortunately,  Corona's  evident  annoyance  at  having 


SANT'  ILARIO.  123 

been  overheard  did  more  to  strengthen  the  feeling  of 
resentment  which  was  growing  in  him  than  what  he  had 
heard  and  seen  a  few  moments  earlier.  The  way  in 
which  she  had  reproached  him  with  not  adding  his  bless 
ing  to  hers  showed  plainly  enough,  he  thought,  that  she 
was  angry  at  what  had  occurred.  They  both  entered  the 
room,  but  before  they  had  been  long  together  Giovanni 
left  his  wife  and  father  and  retired  to  his  own  room 
under  pretext  of  writing  letters  until  dinner-time. 

When  he  was  alone,  the  situation  presented  itself  to 
his  mind  in  a  very  disagreeable  light.  Corona's  assur 
ance  that  the  mystery  was  a  harmless  one  seemed  wholly 
inadequate  to  account  for  her  meeting  with  Gouache  and 
for  her  kind  treatment  of  him,  especially  after  she  had 
shown  herself  so  evidently  cold  to  him  in  the  presence 
of  the  others.  Either  Giovanni  was  a  very  silly  fellow, 
or  he  was  being  deceived  as  no  man  was  ever  deceived 
before.  Either  conclusion  was  exasperating.  He  asked 
himself  whether  he  were  such  a  fool  as  to  invent  a  mis 
construction  upon  occurrences  which  to  any  one  else 
would  have  seemed  void  of  any  importance  whatsoever ; 
and  his  heart  answered  that  if  he  were  indeed  so  sense 
less  he  must  have  lost  his  intelligence  very  recently. 
On  the  other  hand  to  suspect  Corona  of  actually  enter 
taining  a  secret  passion  for  Gouache  was  an  hypothesis 
which  seemed  too  monstrous  to  be  discussed.  He  sat 
down  to  think  about  it,  and  was  suddenly  startled  by  the 
host  of  little  circumstances  which  all  at  once  detached 
themselves  from  the  hazy  past  and  stood  out  in  condem 
nation  of  his  wife.  Gouache,  as  he  himself  had  acknowl 
edged,  had  long  worshipped  the  princess  in  a  respectful, 
almost  reverential  way.  He  had  taken  every  occasion 
of  talking  with  her,  and  had  expressed  even  by  his 
outward  manner  a  degree  of  devotion  he  never  manifested 
to  other  women.  Giovanni  was  now  aware  that  for  some 
time  past,  even  as  far  back  as  the  previous  winter,  he 
had  almost  unconsciously  watched  Corona  and  Anastase 
when  they  were  together.  Nothing  in  her  conduct  had 
excited  his  suspicions  in  the  least,  but  he  had  certainly 
suspected  that  Gouache  was  a  little  inclined  to  idolise 
her,  and  had  laughed  to  himself  more  than  once  at  the  idea 
of  the  French  artist's  hopeless  passion,  with  something  of 


124  SANT'  ILARIO. 

that  careless  satisfaction  a  man  feels  who  sees  a  less 
favoured  mortal  in  dangerous  proximity  to  a  flame  which 
burns  only  for  himself.  It  was  rather  a  contemptible 
amusement,  and  Giovanni  had  never  indulged  in  it  very 
long.  He  liked  Gouache,  and,  if  anything,  pitied  him 
for  his  hopeless  passion.  Corona  treated  the  Zouave  in 
her  grand,  quiet  way,  which  had  an  air  of  protection 
with  it,  and  Giovanni  would  have  scoffed  at  the  thought 
that  she  cared  for  the  man.  Nevertheless,  now  that 
matters  had  taken  such  a  strange  turn,  he  recollected 
with  surprise  that  Gouache  was  undeniably  the  one  of 
all  their  acquaintance  who  most  consistently  followed 
Corona  wherever  they  met.  The  young  man  was  a 
favourite  in  society.  His  great  talent,  his  modesty,  and 
above  all  what  people  were  pleased  to  describe  as  his 
harmlessness,  made  everybody  like  him.  He  went 
everywhere,  and  his  opportunities  of  meeting  the  prin 
cess  were  almost  numberless.  Giovanni  had  certainly 
watched  him  very  often,  though  he  was  hardly  conscious 
of  having  bestowed  so  much  attention  on  the  French 
artist-soldier,  that  he  never  failed  to  glance  at  his  wife 
when  Anastase  was  mentioned. 

Now,  and  all  at  once,  a  hundred  details  rushed  to  his 
recollection,  and  he  was  staggered  by  the  vista  of  inci 
dents  that  rose  before  his  mind.  Within  the  last  twenty- 
four  hours,  especially,  the  evidence  had  assumed  terrible 
proportions.  In  the  first  place  there  had  been  that  scene 
in  the  drawing-room,  enacted  quietly  enough  and  in  a 
corner,  while  there  were  twenty  persons  present,  but 
with  the  coolness  of  two  people  of  the  world  who  know 
what  surprising  things  may  be  done  unobserved  in  a 
room  full  of  people.  If  Anastase  had  kissed  Corona's 
hand  a  little  differently,  and  with  the  evident  intention 
of  being  seen,  the  action  would  have  been  natural.  But 
there  was  a  look  in  Gouache's  face  which  Giovanni 
remembered,  and  an  expression  of  kindness  in  Corona's 
eyes  that  he  had  not  forgotten ;  above  all  they  had  both 
seemed  as  though  they  were  sure  that  no  one  was  watch 
ing  them.  Indeed,  Sant'  Ilario  now  asked  himself  how 
he  had  chanced  to  see  what  passed,  and  the  only  answer 
was  that  he  generally  watched  them  when  they  were 
together.  This  was  a  revelation  to  himself,  and  told 


SANT'  ILARIO.  125 

much.  Then  there  was  her  midnight  expedition  with 
Gouache,  a  far  more  serious  matter.  After  all,  he  had 
only  Corona's  own  assurance  that  Faustina  Montevarchi 
had  been  in  any  way  concerned  in  that  extraordinary 
piece  of  rashness.  He  must  indeed  have  had  faith  in 
his  wife  to  pass  over  such  conduct  without  a  word  of 
explanation.  Next  came  the  events  of  that  very  after 
noon.  Corona  had  been  rude  to  Gouache,  had  then  sud 
denly  left  the  room,  and  in  j>assing  out  had  exchanged 
a  few  words  with  him  in  a  low  tone.  She  had  met  him 
again  by  accident,  if  it  had  been  an  accident,  and  fancying 
herself  unseen  had  behaved  very  differently  to  the  young 
man.  There  had  been  a  parting  which  savoured  unpleas 
antly  of  the  affectionate,  and  which  was  certainly  some 
thing  more  than  merely  friendly.  Lastly,  Corona  had 
evidently  been  annoyed  at  Giovanni's  appearance,  a  fact 
which  seemed  to  conclude  the  whole  argument  with  a 
terrible  certainty. 

Finding  himself  face  to  face  with  a  conclusion  which 
threatened  to  destroy  his  happiness  altogether,  Giovanni 
started  up  from  his  chair  and  began  to  walk  backwards 
and  forwards  in  the  room,  pausing  a  moment  each  time 
he  turned,  as  though  to  gather  strength,  or  to  shake  off 
an  evil  thought.  In  the  light  of  his  present  reflections 
an  explanation  seemed  inevitable,  but  when  he  thought 
of  that  he  saw  too  clearly  that  any  explanation  must 
begin  by  his  accusing  his  wife,  and  he  knew  that  if  he 
accused  her  justly,  it  would  only  end  in  a  denial  from 
her.  What  woman,  however  guilty,  would  not  deny  her 
guilt  when  charged  with  it.  What  man  either,  where 
love  was  concerned?  Giovanni  laughed  bitterly,  then 
turned  pale  and  sat  down  again.  To  accuse  Corona  of 
loving  Gouache !  It  was  too  monstrous  to  be  believed. 
And  yet  —  what  did  all  those  doings  mean?  There  must 
be  a  reason  for  them.  If  he  called  her  and  told  her  what 
he  felt,  and  if  she  were  innocent,  she  would  tell  him  all, 
everything  would  be  explained,  and  he  would  doubtless 
see  that  all  this  damning  evidence  was  no  more  than  the 
natural  outward  appearance  of  perfectly  harmless  cir 
cumstances  of  which  he  knew  nothing.  Ay,  but  if  they 
were  harmless,  why  should  she  implore  him  to  ask  no 
questions?  Because  the  honour  of  some  one  else  was 


126  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

concerned,  of  course.  But  was  he,  Giovanni  Saracin- 
esca,  not  to  be  trusted  with  the  keeping  of  that  other 
person's  honour  as  well  as  Corona  herself?  Had  they 
ever  had  secrets  from  each  other?  Would  it  not  have 
been  simpler  for  her  to  trust  him  with  the  story,  if  she 
was  innocent,  than  to  be  silent  and  ask  him  to  trust  her 
motives?  Far  simpler,  of  course.  And  then,  if  only  a 
third  person's  feelings  were  at  stake,  what  necessity  had 
there  been  for  such  a  sentimental  parting?  She  had 
given  Gouache  a  blessing  very  like  the  one  she  had  given 
Giovanni.  Worst  of  all,  were  not  the  circumstances  the 
same,  the  very  same? 

Giovanni  remembered  the  Frangipani  ball.  At  that 
time  Corona  was  married  to  Astrardente,  who  had  died 
a  few  days  afterwards.  Giovanni  had  that  night  told 
Corona  that  he  loved  her,  in  very  passionate  terms. 
She  had  silenced  him,  and  he  had  behaved  like  a  gentle 
man,  for  he  had  asked  her  pardon  for  what  he  had  done. 
She  had  forgiven  him,  and  to  show  that  she  bore  no 
malice  had  spoken  a  kind  of  benediction  —  a  prayer  that 
all  might  be  well  with  him.  He  knew  now  that  she  had 
loved  him  even  then  when  she  repelled  him. 

And  now  that  she  was  married  to  Giovanni,  another 
had  come,  and  had  talked  with  her,  and  exchanged  words 
in  a  low  tone  even  as  he  himself  had  once  done.  And 
she  had  treated  this  man  roughly  before  her  husband, 
and  presently  afterwards  had  allowed  him  to  kiss  her 
hand  and  had  sent  him  away  saying  that  she  forgave  him 
—  just  as  she  had  formerly  forgiven  Giovanni  —  and 
praying  that  all  blessings  might  go  with  him.  Why 
was  it  not  possible  that  she  loved  this  man,  too?  Be 
cause  she  was  so  grandly  beautiful,  and  dark  and  calm, 
and  had  such  a  noble  fearlessness  in  her  eyes?  Other 
women  had  been  beautiful  and  had  deceived  wiser  men 
than  Giovanni,  and  had  fallen.  Beauty  was  no  argument 
for  the  defence,  nor  brave  eyes,  nor  the  magnificent  dig 
nity  of  movement  and  speech  —  nor  words  either,  for 
that  matter. 

Suspense  was  agony,  and  yet  a  twofold  horror  seemed 
the  only  issue,  the  one  inevitable,  the  other  possible. 
First,  to  accuse  this  woman  whom  he  loved  so  dearly, 
and  then,  perhaps,  to  hear  her  deny  the  charge  boldly 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  127 

and  yet  refuse  all  explanation.  Once  more  Giovanni 
rose  from  his  deep  chair  and  paced  his  room  with  regular 
strides,  though  he  scarcely  saw  the  carpet  under  his  feet, 
nor  realised  any  longer  where  he  was.  At  last  he  stopped 
and  laughed.  The  sound  was  strange  and  false,  as  when 
a  man  tries  to  be  merry  who  feels  no  mirth. 

He  was  making  a  desperate  effort  to  shake  off  this 
nightmare  that  beset  him,  to  say  to  himself  that  he  was 
but  a  fool,  and  that  there  was  no  cause  for  all  this  suffer 
ing  which  he  was  inflicting  on  his  heart,  nor  for  all  these 
questions  he  had  been  asking  of  his  intelligence.  It  was 
surely  not  true !  He  would  laugh  now,  would  laugh 
heartily  within  the  next  half  hour  with  Corona  herself, 
at  the  mere  thought  of  supposing  that  she  could  love 
Gouache,  Gouache,  a  painter !  Gouache,  a  Zouave ! 
Gouache,  a  contemptibly  good-natured,  harmless  little 
foreigner!  —  and  Corona  del  Carmine,  Duchessa  d'As- 
trardente,  Principessa  di  Sant'  Ilario,  mother  of  all  the 
Saracinesca  yet  to  come !  It  was  better  to  laugh,  truly, 
at  such  an  absurd  juxtaposition  of  ideas,  of  personalities, 
of  high  and  low.  And  Giovanni  laughed,  but  the  sound 
was  very  harsh  and  died  away  without  rousing  one  honest 
echo  in  the  vaulted  room. 

Had  Corona  seen  his  face  at  that  moment,  or  had  she 
guessed  what  was  passing  in  his  mind,  she  would  have 
sacrificed  Faustina's  secret  ten  times  over  rather  than 
let  Giovanni  suffer  a  moment  longer  as  he  was  suffering 
now.  But  Corona  had  no  idea  that  he  could  put  such  a 
construction  upon  her  doings.  He  had  shown  her  noth 
ing  of  what  he  felt,  except  perhaps  a  slight  annoyance 
at  not  being  put  in  possession  of  the  secret.  It  was 
natural,  she  thought,  that  he  should  be  a  little  out  of 
temper,  but  as  she  saw  no  way  of  remedying  the  trouble 
except  by  exposing  to  him  the  innocent  girl  whom  she 
had  undertaken  to  protect,  she  held  her  peace  and 
trusted  that  her  husband's  displeasure  would  soon  be 
past.  Had  there  been  more  time  for  reflection  on  the 
previous  evening,  in  the  interval  between  her  learning 
from  the  porter  that  Giovanni  knew  of  her  absence,  and 
her  being  confronted  with  Giovanni  himself,  she  might 
have  resolved  to  act  differently ;  but  having  once  made 
up  her  mind  that  he  ought  not  to  know  the  truth  for  the 


128  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

present,  opposition  only  strengthened  her  determination. 
There  was  nothing  wrong  in  the  course  she  was  pursu 
ing,  or  her  conscience  would  have  spoken  and  bidden  her 
speak  out.  Her  nature  was  too  like  Giovanni's  own, 
proud,  reserved,  and  outwardly  cold,  to  yield  any  point 
easily.  It  was  her  instinct,  like  his,  to  be  silent  rather 
than  to  speak,  and  to  weigh  considerations  before  acting 
upon  them.  This  very  similarity  of  temper  in  the  two 
rendered  it  certain  that  if  they  were  ever  opposed  to  each 
other  the  struggle  would  be  a  serious  one.  They  were 
both  too  strong  to  lead  a  life  of  petty  quarrelling;  if 
they  ceased  to  live  in  perfect  harmony  they  were  only 
too  sure  to  come  to  open  hostility.  There  is  nothing 
which  will  wound  pride  and  raise  anger  so  inevitably  as 
finding  unexpected  but  determined  opposition  in  those 
who  very  closely  resemble  ourselves.  In  such  a  case  a 
man  cannot  fall  back  upon  the  comfortable  alternative 
of  despising  his  enemy,  since  he  has  an  intimate  convic 
tion  that  it  would  be  paramount  to  despising  himself; 
and  if  he  is  led  into  a  pitched  battle  he  will  find  his  foe 
possessed  of  weapons  which  are  exactly  like  his  own. 

Giovanni  and  Corona  were  very  evenly  matched,  as 
nearly  resembling  each  other  as  is  possible  for  a  man  and 
a  woman.  Corona  was  outwardly  a  little  the  colder, 
Giovanni  a  little  the  more  resentful  of  the  two.  Corona 
had  learned  during  the  years  of  her  marriage  with  Astrar- 
dente  to  wear  a  mask  of  serene  indifference,  and  the 
assumed  habit  had  at  last  become  in  some  degree  a  part 
of  her  nature.  Giovanni,  whose  first  impulses  had 
originally  been  quicker  than  they  now  were,  had  learned 
the  power  of  waiting  by  constant  intercourse  with  his 
father,  whose  fiery  temper  seemed  to  snatch  at  trifles  for 
the  mere  pleasure  of  tearing  them  to  pieces,  and  did 
injustice  to  the  generous  heart  he  concealed  under  his 
rough  exterior. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  was  not  probable  that 
Sant'  Ilario  would  make  any  exhibition  of  his  jealousy 
for  some  time  to  come.  As  he  paced  the  floor  of  his 
room,  the  bitterness  of  his  situation  slowly  sank  from 
the  surface,  leaving  his  face  calm  and  almost  serene. 
He  forced  himself  to  look  at  the  facts  again  and  again, 
trying  bravely  to  be  impartial  and  to  survey  them  as 


SANT'  ILARIO.  129 

though  he  were  the  judge  and  not  the  plaintiff.  He 
admitted  at  last  that  there  was  undoubtedly  abundant 
matter  for  jealousy,  but  Corona  still  stood  protected  as 
it  were  by  the  love  he  bore  her,  a  love  which  even  her 
guilt  would  be  unable  to  destroy.  His  love  indeed,  must 
outlast  everything,  all  evil,  all  disgrace,  and  he  knew  it. 
He  thought  of  that  Latin  poet  who,  writing  to  his  mis 
tress,  said  in  the  bitterness  of  his  heart  that  though  she 
were  to  become  the  best  woman  in  the  world  he  could 
never  again  respect  her,  but  that  he  could  not  cease  to 
love  her,  were  she  guilty  of  all  crimes.  He  knew  that 
if  the  worst  turned  out  true  that  must  be  his  case,  and 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life  he  understood  all 
the  humanity  of  Catullus,  and  saw  how  a  man  might  love 
even  what  he  despised. 

Happily  matters  had  not  yet  come  to  that.  He  knew 
that  he  might  be  deceived,  and  that  circumstantial  evi 
dence  was  not  always  to  be  trusted.  Even  while  his 
heart  grew  cold  with  the  strongest  and  most  deadly  pas 
sion  of  which  man  is  capable,  with  jealousy  which  is 
cruel  as  the  grave,  the  nobility  of  his  nature  rose  up  and 
made  him  see  that  his  duty  was  to  believe  Corona  inno 
cent  until  she  were  proved  unfaithful.  The  effort  to 
quench  the  flame  was  great,  though  fruitless,  but  the 
determination  to  cover  it  and  hide  it  from  every  one,  even 
from  Corona  herself,  appealed  to  all  that  was  brave  and 
manly  in  his  strong  character.  When  at  last  he  once 
more  sat  down,  his  face  betrayed  no  emotion,  his  eyes 
were  quiet,  his  hands  did  not  tremble.  He  took  up  a 
book  and  forced  his  attention  upon  the  pages  for  nearly 
an  hour  without  interruption.  Then  he  dressed  himself, 
and  went  and  sat  at  table  with  his  father  and  his  wife  as 
though  nothing  had  occurred  to  disturb  his  equanimity. 

Corona  supposed  that  he  had  recovered  from  his  annoy 
ance  at  not  being  admitted  to  share  the  secret  for  which 
she  was  unconsciously  sacrificing  so  much.  She  had 
expected  this  result  and  was  more  than  usually  cheerful. 
Once  old  Saracinesca  mentioned  Gouache,  but  both 
Corona  and  Giovanni  hastened  to  change  the  subject. 
This  time,  however,  Giovanni  did  not  look  at  his  wife 
when  the  name  was  pronounced.  Those  days  were  over 
now. 

K 


130  SANT*    ILAKtO. 


CHAPTER  IX. 

The  excitement  which  had  reigned  in  Rome  for  weeks 
past  was  destined  to  end  almost  as  suddenly  as  it  had 
begun.  The  events  which  followed  the  22d  of  October 
have  been  frequently  and  accurately  described;  indeed, 
if  we  consider  the  small  number  of  the  troops  engaged 
and  the  promptness  with  which  a  very  limited  body  of 
men  succeeded  in  quelling  what  at  first  appeared  to  be  a 
formidable  revolution,  we  are  surprised  at  the  amount  of 
attention  which  has  been  accorded  to  the  little  campaign. 
The  fact  is  that  although  the  armies  employed  on  both 
sides  were  insignificant,  the  questions  at  stake  were 
enormous,  and  the  real  powers  which  found  themselves 
confronted  at  Monte  Rotondo  and  Mentana  were  the 
Kingdom  of  Italy  and  the  French  Empire.  Until  the 
ultimatum  was  presented  to  Italy  by  the  French  Minister 
on  the  19th  of  October,  Italy  hoped  to  take  possession 
of  Rome  on  the  pretext  of  restoring  order  after  allowing 
it  to  be  subverted  by  Garibaldi's  guerillas.  The  military 
cordon  formed  by  the  Italian  army  to  prevent  Garibaldi's 
crossing  the  frontier  was  a  mere  show.  The  arrest  of 
the  leader  himself,  however  it  was  intended  by  those 
who  ordered  it,  turned  out  in  effect  to  be  a  mere  comedy, 
as  he  soon  found  himself  at  liberty  and  no  one  again 
attempted  to  seize  him.  When  France  interfered  the 
scale  turned.  She  asserted  her  determination  to  main 
tain  the  Convention  of  1864  by  force  of  arms,  and  Italy 
was  obliged  to  allow  Garibaldi  to  be  defeated,  since  she 
was  unable  to  face  the  perils  of  a  war  with  her  powerful 
neighbour.  If  a  small  body  of  French  troops  had  not 
entered  Rome  on  the  30th  of  the  month,  the  events 
of  1870  would  have  occurred  three  years  earlier,  though 
probably  with  different  results. 

It  being  the  object  of  the  general  commanding  the 
Pope's  forces  to  concentrate  a  body  of  men  with  whom 
to  meet  Garibaldi,  who  was  now  advancing  boldly,  the 
small  detachments,  of  which  many  had  already  been  sent 
to  the  front,  were  kept  back  in  Rome  in  the  hope  of 
getting  together  something  like  an  army.  Gouache's 


SAKT'  ILARKX  131 

departure  was  accordingly  delayed  from  day  to  day,  and 
it  was  not  until  the  early  morning  of  the  3d  of  November 
that  he  actually  quitted  Rome  with  the  whole  available 
corps  of  Zouaves.  Ten  days  elapsed,  therefore,  after 
the  events  last  described,  during  which  time  he  was 
hourly  in  expectation  of  orders  to  march.  The  service 
had  become  so  arduous  within  the  city  that  he  could 
scarcely  call  a  moment  his  own.  It  was  no  time  to  think 
of  social  duties,  and  he  spent  the  leisure  he  had  in  trying 
to  see  Faustina  Monte varchi  as  often  as  possible. 

This,  however,  was  no  easy  matter.  It  was  a  provok 
ing  fact  that  his  duties  kept  him  busily  occupied  in  the 
afternoon  and  evening,  and  that  the  hours  he  could  com 
mand  fell  almost  always  in  the  morning.  To  visit  the 
Palazzo  Montevarchi  on  any  pretext  whatever  before 
one  o'clock  in  the  day  was  out  of  the  question.  He  had 
not  even  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  Faustina  drive  past 
him  in  the  Corso  when  she  was  out  with  her  mother  and 
Flavia,  since  they  drove  just  at  the  time  when  he  was 
occupied.  Gouache  told  himself  again  and  again  that 
the  display  of  ingenuity  was  in  a  measure  the  natural 
duty  of  a  man  in  love,  but  the  declaration  did  not  help 
him  very  much.  He  was  utterly  at  a  loss  for  an  expe 
dient,  and  suffered  keenly  in  being  deprived  of  the  possi 
bility  of  seeing  Faustina  after  having  seen  her  so  often 
and  so  intimately.  A  week  earlier  he  could  have  borne 
it  better,  but  now  the  separation  was  intolerable.  In 
time  of  peace  he  would  have  disobeyed  orders  and  thrown 
up  his  service  for  the  day,  no  matter  what  the  conse 
quences  turned  out  to  be  for  himself;  but  at  the  present 
moment,  when  every  man  was  expected  to  be  at  his  post, 
such  conduct  seemed  dishonourable  and  cowardly.  He 
submitted  in  silence,  growing  daily  more  careworn,  and 
losing  much  of  the  inexhaustible  gaiety  which  made  him 
a  general  favourite  with  his1  comrades. 

There  was  but  one  chance  of  seeing  Faustina,  and  even 
that  one  offered  little  probability  of  an  interview.  He 
knew  that  on  Sunday  mornings  she  sometimes  went  to 
church  at  an  early  hour  with  no  one  but  her  maid  for  a 
companion.  Her  mother  and  Flavia  preferred  to  rise 
later  and  attended  another  mass.  Now  it  chanced  that 
in  the  year  1867,  the  22d  of  October,  the  date  of  the 


132  SANT'  ILARIO. 

insurrection,  fell  on  Tuesday.  Five  days,  therefore, 
must  elapse  before  he  could  see  Faustina  on  a  Sunday, 
and  if  he  failed  to  see  her  then  he  would  have  to  wait 
another  week. 

Unfortunately,  Faustina's  early  expeditions  to  church 
were  by  no  means  certain  or  regular,  and  it  would  be 
necessary  to  convey  a  message  to  her  before  the  day 
arrived.  This  was  no  easy  matter.  To  send  anything 
through  the  post  was  out  of  the  question,  and  Gouache 
knew  how  hard  it  would  be  to  find  the  means  of  putting 
a  note  into  her  hands  through  a  servant.  Hour  after 
hour  he  cudgelled  his  brains  for  an  expedient  without 
success,  until  the  idea  pursued  him  and  made  him  ner 
vous.  The  time  approached  rapidly  and  he  had  as  yet 
accomplished  nothing.  The  wildest  schemes  suggested 
themselves  to  him  and  were  rejected  as  soon  as  he  thought 
of  them.  He  met  some  of  his  acquaintances  during  the 
idle  hours  of  the  morning,  and  it  almost  drove  him  mad 
to  think  that  almost  any  one  of  them  could  see  Faustina 
any  day  he  pleased.  He  did  what  he  could  to  obtain 
leave  in  the  afternoon  or  evening,  but  his  exertions  were 
fruitless.  He  was  a  man  who  was  trusted,  and  knew  it, 
and  the  disturbed  state  of  affairs  made  it  necessary  that 
every  man  should  do  precisely  what  was  allotted  to  him, 
at  the  risk  of  causing  useless  complications  in  the  effort 
to  concentrate  and  organise  the  troops  which  was  now 
going  forward.  At  last  he  actually  went  to  the  Palazzo 
Montevarchi  in  the  morning  and  inquired  if  he  could  see 
the  princess. 

The  porter  replied  that  she  was  not  visible,  and  that 
the  prince  had  gone  out.  There  was  nothing  to  be  done, 
and  he  turned  to  go  away.  Suddenly  he  stopped  as  he 
stood  under  the  deep  arch,  facing  the  blank  wall  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street.  That  same  wall  was  broad 
and  smooth  and  dark  in  colour.  He  only  looked  at  it  a 
moment,  and  then  to  excuse  his  hesitation  in  the  eyes  of 
the  porter,  he  took  out  a  cigarette,  and  lit  it  before  going 
out.  As  he  passed  through  the  Piazza  Colonna  a  few 
minutes  later  he  went  into  a  shop  and  bought  two  large 
tubes  of  paint  with  a  broad  brush.  That  night,  when  he 
was  relieved  from  duty,  he  went  back  to  the  Palazzo 
Montevarchi.  It  was  very  late,  and  the  streets  were 


SANT'  ILAEIO. 

deserted.  He  stood  before  the  great  closed  doors  of  the 
palace  and  then  walked  straight  across  the  stre.et  to  the 
blank  wall  with  his  paint  and  brush  in  his  hands. 

On  the  following  morning  when  the  Montevarchi  porter 
opened  the  gates  his  eyes  were  rejoiced  by  some  most 
extraordinary  specimens  of  calligraphy  executed  upon 
the  dark  stones  with  red  paint  of  a  glaringly  vivid  hue. 
The  letters  A.  G.  were  drawn  at'  least  four  feet  high  in 
the  centre,  and  were  repeated  in  every  size  at  irregular 
intervals  for  some  distance  above,  below,  and  on  each 
side.  The  words  " Domenica,"  Sunday,  and  " Messa," 
mass,  were  scrawled  everywhere  in  capitals,  in  round- 
hand,  large  and  small.  Then  to  give  the  whole  the  air 
of  having  been  designed  by  a  street-boy,  there  were  other 
words,  such  as  "Viva  Pio  IX.,"  "Viva  il  Papa  Ke,"  and 
across  these,  in  a  different  manner,  and  in  green  paint, 
"Viva  Garibaldi,"  "Morte  a  Antonelli,"  and  similar 
revolutionary  sentiments.  The  whole,  however,  was  so 
disposed  that  Gouache's  initials  and  the  two  important 
words  stood  out  in  bold  relief  from  the  rest,  and  could 
not  fail  to  attract  the  eye. 

Of  the  many  people  who  came  and  went  that  day 
through  the  great  gate  of  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi  two 
only  attached  any  importance  to  the  glaring  scrawls  on 
the  opposite  wall.  One  of  these  was  Faustina  herself, 
who  saw  and  understood.  The  other  was  San  Giacinto, 
who  stared  at  the  letters  for  several  seconds,  and  then 
smiled  faintly  as  he  entered  the  palace.  He,  too,  knew 
what  the  signs  meant,  and  remarked  to  himself  that 
Gouache  was  an  enterprising  youth,  but  that,  in  the 
interest  of  the  whole  tribe  of  Montevarchi,  it  would  be 
well  to  put  a  stop  to  his  love-making  as  soon  as  possible. 
It  was  now  Saturday  afternoon  and  there  was  no  time  to 
be  lost. 

San  Giacinto  made  a  short  visit,  and,  on  leaving,  went 
immediately  to  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca.  He  knew  that 
at  four  o'clock  Corona  would  probably  not  yet  be  at  home. 
This  turned  out  to  be  the  case,  and  having  announced 
his  intention  of  waiting  for  her  return  he  was  ushered 
into  the  sitting-room.  As  soon  as  the  servant  was  gone 
he  went  to  Corona's  writing-table  and  took  from  it  a 
couple  of  sheets  of  her  paper  and  two  of  her  envelopes. 


134  SANT'  ILARIO. 

These  latter  were  stamped  with  a  coronet  and  her  ini 
tials.  He  folded  the  paper  carefully  and  put  the  four 
bits  into  his  pocket-book.  He  waited  ten  minutes,  but 
no  one  came.  Then  he  left  the  house,  telling  the  servant 
to  say  that  he  had  called  and  would  return  presently.  In 
a  few  minutes  he  was  at  his  lodgings,  where  he  proceeded 
to  write  the  following  note.  He  had  taken  two  sheets 
in  case  the  first  proved  a  failure :  — 

"I  have  understood,  but  alas!  I  cannot  come.  Oh, 
my  beloved!  when  shall  we  meet  again?  It  seems  years 
since  Tuesday  night  —  and  yet  I  am  so  watched  that  I 
can  do  nothing.  Some  one  suspects  something.  I  am 
sure  of  it.  A  trusty  person  will  bring  you  this.  I  love 
you  always  —  do  not  doubt  it,  though  I  cannot  meet  you 
to-morrow." 

San  Giacinto,  who  had  received  a  tolerable  education 
and  had  conscientiously  made  the  best  of  it,  prided  him 
self  upon  his  handwriting.  It  was  small,  clear,  and 
delicate,  like  that  of  many  strong,  quiet  men,  wrhose 
nerves  do  not  run  away  with  their  fingers.  On  the  pres 
ent  occasion  he  took  pains  to  make  it  even  more  careful 
than  usual,  and  the  result  was  that  it  looked  not  unlike 
the  "  copperplate"  handwriting  a  girl  would  learn  at  the 
convent,  though  an  expert  would  probably  have  declared 
it  disguised.  It  had  been  necessary,  in  order  to  deceive 
Gouache,  to  write  the  note  on  the  paper  generally  used 
by  women  of  society.  As  he  could  not  get  any  of  Faus 
tina's  own,  it  seemed  the  next  best  thing  to  take  Coro 
na's,  since  Corona  was  her  most  intimate  friend. 

Gouache  had  told  San  Giacinto  that  he  was  engaged 
every  afternoon,  in  hopes  that  he  would  in  turn  chance 
to  mention  the  fact  to  Faustina.  It  was  therefore  pretty 
certain  that  Anastase  would  not  be  at  home  between  four 
and  five  o'clock.  San  Giacinto  drove  to  the  Zouave's 
lodgings  and  asked  for  him.  If  he  chanced  to  be  in,  the 
note  could  be  given  to  his  old  landlady.  He  was  out, 
however,  and  San  Giacinto  asked  to  be  allowed  to  enter 
the  room  on  the  pretext  of  writing  a  word  for  his  friend. 
The  landlady  was  a  dull  old  creature,  who  had  been 
warming  herself  with  a  pot  of  coals  when  San  Giacinto 
rang.  In  answer  to  his  request  she  resumed  her  occupa 
tion  and  pointed  to  the  door  of  the  Zouave's  apartment. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  135 

San  Giacinto  entered,  and  looked  about  him  for  a  con 
spicuous  place  in  which  to  put  the  letter  he  had  pre 
pared.  He  preferred  not  to  trust  to  the  memory  of  the 
woman,  who  might  forget  to  deliver  it  until  the  next 
day,  especially  if  Gouache  came  home  late  that  night,  as 
was  very  likely.  The  table  of  the  small  sitting-room 
was  littered  with  letters  and  papers,  books  and  drawings, 
so  that  an  object  placed  in  the  midst  of  such  disorder 
would  not  be  likely  to  attract  Gouache's  attention.  The 
door  beyond  was  open,  and  showed  a  toilet-table  in  the 
adjoining  chamber,  which  was  indeed  the  bedroom.  San 
Giacinto  went  in,  and  taking  the  note  from  his  pocket, 
laid  it  on  an  old-fashioned  pincushion  before  the  glass. 
The  thing  slipped,  however,  and  in  order  to  fasten  it 
firmly  he  thrust  a  gold  pin  that  lay  on  the  table  through 
the  letter  and  pinned  it  to  the  cushion  in  a  conspicuous 
position.  Then  he  went  out  and  returned  to  the  Palazzo 
Saracinesca  as  he  had  promised  to  do. 

In  doing  all  this  he  had  no  intention  of  injuring  either 
Gouache  or  Faustina.  He  perceived  clearly  enough  that 
their  love  affair  could  not  come  to  any  good  termination, 
and  as  his  interests  were  now  very  closely  bound  up  with 
those  of  the  Montevarchi,  it  seemed  wisest  to  break  off 
the  affair  by  any  means  in  his  power,  without  complicat 
ing  matters  by  speaking  to  Gouache  or  to  Faustina's 
father  or  mother.  He  knew  enough  of  human  nature  to 
understand  that  Gouache  would  be  annoyed  at  losing  the 
chance  of  a  meeting,  and  he  promised  himself  to  watch 
the  two  so  carefully  as  to  be  able  to  prevent  other  clan 
destine  interviews  during  the  next  few  days.  If  he  could 
once  sow  the  seeds  of  a  quarrel  between  the  two,  he  fan 
cied  it  would  be  easy  to  break  up  the  relations.  Noth 
ing  makes  a  woman  so  angry  as  to  wait  for  a  man  who 
has  promised  to  meet  her,  and  if  he  fails  to  come  alto 
gether  her  anger  will  probably  be  very  serious.  In  the 
present  case  he  supposed  that  Faustina  would  go  to  the 
church,  but  that  Gouache,  being  warned  that  he  was  not 
to  come,  would  not  think  of  keeping  the  tryst.  The 
scheme,  if  not  profound,  was  at  least  likely  to  produce  a 
good  deal  of  trouble  between  the  lovers. 

San  Giacinto  returned  to  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca,  but 
he  found  only  the  old  prince  at  home,  though  he  pro- 


SANT     ILARIO. 

longed  his  visit  in  the  hope  of  seeing  Corona  or  Sant' 
Ilario. 

"By  the  bye,"  he  said,  as  he  and  his  companion  sat 
together  in  the  prince's  study,  "I  remember  that  you 
were  so  good  as  to  say  that  you  would  let  me  see  those 
family  papers  some  day.  They  must  be  very  interesting 
and  I  would  be  glad  to  avail  myself  of  your  offer. " 

"Certainly,"  replied  Saracinesca.  "They  are  in  the 
Archives  in  a  room  of  the  library.  It  is  rather  late  now. 
Do  you  mind  waiting  till  to-morrow?  " 

"Not  in  the  least,  or  as  long  as  you  like.  To  tell  the 
truth,  I  would  like  to  show  them  to  my  future  father-in- 
law,  who  loves  archaeology.  I  was  talking  about  them 
with  him  yesterday.  After  all,  however,  I  suppose  the 
duplicates  are  at  the  Cancelleria,  and  we  can  see  them 
there." 

"  I  do  not  know, "  said  the  prince,  carelessly,  "  I  never 
took  the  trouble  to  inquire.  There  is  probably  some 
register  of  them,  or  something  to  prove  that  they  are  in 
existence." 

"  There  must  be,  of  course.  Things  of  that  importance 
would  not  be  allowed  to  go  unregistered,  unless  people 
were  very  indifferent  in  those  days." 

"  It  is  possible  that  there  are  no  duplicates.  It  may 
be  that  there  is  only  an  official  notice  of  the  deed  giving 
the  heads  of  the  agreement.  You  see  it  was  a  friendly 
arrangement,  and  there  was  supposed  to  be  no  probability 
whatever  that  your  great-grandfather  would  ever  marry. 
The  papers  I  have  are  all  in  order  and  legally  valid,  but 
there  may  have  been  some  carelessness  about  registering 
them.  I  cannot  be  sure.  Indeed  it  is  thirty  years  at 
least  since  I  looked  at  the  originals." 

"If  you  would  have  them  taken  out  some  time  before 
I  am  married,  I  should  be  glad  to  see  them,  but  there  is 
no  hurry.  So  all  this  riot  and  revolution  has  meant 
something  after  all,"  added  San  Giacinto  to  change  the 
subject.  "  Garibaldi  has  taken  Monte  Eotondo,  I  hear 

to-day-" 

"  Yes,  and  if  the  French  are  not  quick,  we  shall  have 
the  diversion  of  a  siege,"  replied  Saracinesca  rather 
scornfully.  "  That  same  taking  of  Monte  Rotondo  was 
one  of  those  gallant  deeds  for  which  Garibaldi  is  so  justly 


SANT'  ILARTO.  137 

famous.  He  has  six  thousand  men,  and  there  were  only 
three  hundred  and  fifty  soldiers  inside.  Twenty  to  one, 
or  thereabouts." 

It  is  unnecessary  to  detail  the  remainder  of  the  conver 
sation.  Saracinesca  went  off  into  loud  abuse  of  Gari 
baldi,  confounding  the  whole  Italian  Government  with 
him  and  devoting  all  to  one  common  destruction,  while 
San  Giacinto  reserved  his  judgment,  believing  that  there 
was  probably  a  wide  difference  between  the  real  inten 
tions  of  the  guerilla  general  and  of  his  lawful  sovereign, 
Victor  Emmanuel  the  Second,  King  of  Italy.  At  last 
the  two  men  were  informed  that  Corona  had  returned. 
They  left  the  study  and  found  her  in  the  sitting-room. 

"Where  is  Giovanni?"  she  asked  as  soon  as  they  en 
tered.  She  was  standing  before  the  fireplace  dressed  as 
she  had  come  in. 

• "  I  have  no  idea  where  he  is, "  replied  Saracinesca.  "  I 
suppose  he  is  at  the  club,  or  making  visits  somewhere. 
He  has  turned  into  a  very  orderly  boy  since  you  married 
him."  The  old  man  laughed  a  little. 

"  I  have  missed  him, "  said  Corona,  taking  no  notice  of 
her  father-in-law's  remark.  "  I  was  to  have  picked  him 
up  on  the  Pincio,  and  when  I  got  there  he  was  gone.  I 
am  so  afraid  he  will  think  I  forgot  all  about  it,  for  I  must 
have  been  late.  You  see,  I  was  delayed  by  a  crowd  in 
the  Tritone  —  there  is  always  a  crowd  there." 

Corona  seemed  less  calm  than  usual.  The  fact  was, 
that  since  the  affair  which  had  caused  her  husband  so 
much  annoyance,  some  small  part  of  which  she  had  per 
ceived,  she  had  been  trying  to  make  up  to  him  for  his 
disappointment  in  not  knowing  her  secret,  by  being  with 
him  more  than  usual,  and  by  exerting  herself  to  please 
him  in  every  way.  They  did  not  usually  meet  during 
the  afternoon,  as  he  generally  went  out  on  foot,  while 
she  drove,  but  to-day  they  had  agreed  that  she  should 
come  to  the  Pincio  and  take  him  for  a  short  drive  and 
bring  him  home.  The  plan  was  part  of  her  fixed  inten 
tion  to  ba  more  than  usually  thoughtful  where  he  was 
concerned,  and  the  idea  that  she  had  kept  him  waiting 
and  that  he  had  gone  away  caused  her  more  regret  than 
would  have  been  natural  in  the  ordinary  course  of  events. 

In  order  to  explain  what  now  took  place,  it  is  necessary 


138  SANT'  ILARIO. 

to  return  to  Giovanni  himself  who,  as  Corona  had  said, 
had  waited  for  his  wife  near  the  band-stand  on  the  Pincio 
for  some  time,  until  growing  weary,  he  had  walked  away 
and  left  the  gardens. 

Though,  he  manfully  concealed  what  he  felt,  the  pas 
sion  that  had  been  sown  in  his  heart  had  grown  apace 
and  in  a  few  days  had  assumed  dominating  proportions. 
He  suspected  everything  and  everybody  while  determined 
to  appear  indifferent.  Even  Corona's  efforts  to  please 
him,  which  of  late  had  grown  so  apparent,  caused  him 
suspicion.  He  asked  himself  why  her  manner  should 
have  changed,  as  it  undoubtedly  had  during  the  last  few 
days.  She  had  always  been  a  good  and  loving  wife  to 
him,  and  he  was  well  pleased  with  her  gravity  and  her 
dignified  way  of  showing  her  affection.  Why  should 
she  suddenly  think  it  needful  to  become  so  very  solici 
tous  for  his  welfare  and  happiness  during  every  moment 
of  his  life?  It  was  not  like  her  to  come  into  his  study 
early  in  the  morning  and  to  ask  what  he  meant  to  do 
during  the  day.  It  was  a  new  thing  that  she  should 
constantly  propose  to  walk  with  him,  to  drive  with  him, 
to  read  aloud  to  him,  to  make  herself  not  only  a  part  of 
his  heart  but  a  part  of  his  occupations.  Had  the  change 
come  gradually,  he  would  not  have  distrusted  her 
motives.  He  liked  his  wife's  company  and  conversa 
tion,  but  as  they  each  had  things  to  do  which  could  not 
conveniently  be  done  together,  he  had  made  up  his  mind 
to  the  existence  which  was  good  enough  for  his  compan 
ions  in  society.  Other  men  did  not  think  of  spending 
the  afternoon  in  their  wives'  carriages,  leaving  cards  or 
making  visits,  or  driving  round  and  round  the  Villa 
Borghese  and  the  Pincio.  To  do  so  was  to  be  ridiculous 
in  the  extreme,  and  besides,  though  he  liked  to  be  with 
Corona,  he  detested  visiting,  and  hated  of  all  things  to 
stop  a  dozen  times  in  the  course  of  a  drive  in  order  to 
send  a  footman  upstairs  with  cards.  He  preferred  to 
walk  or  to  lounge  in  the  club  or  to  stay  at  home  and 
study  the  problems  of  his  improvements  for  Saracin- 
esca.  Corona's  manner  irritated  him  therefore,  and 
made  him  think  more  than  ever  of  the  subject  which  he 
would  have  done  better  to  abandon  from  the  first. 

Nevertheless,  he  would  not  show  that  he  was  wearied 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  139 

by  his  wife's  attention,  still  less  that  he  believed  her 
behaviour  to  be  prompted  by  a  desire  to  deceive  him. 
He  was  uniformly  courteous  and  gentle,  acquiescing  in 
her  little  plans  whenever  he  could  do  so,  and  expressing 
a  suitable  degree  of  regret  when  he  was  prevented  from 
joining  her  by  some  previous  engagement.  But  the 
image  of  the  French  Zouave  was  ever  present  with  him. 
He  could  not  get  rid  of  Gouache's  dark,  delicate  features, 
even  in  his  dreams;  the  sound  of  the  man's  pleasant 
voice  and  of  his  fluent  conversation  was  constantly  in  his 
ears,  and  he  could  not  look  at  Corona  without  fancying 
how  she  would  look  if  Anastase  were  beside  her  whis 
pering  t  snder  speeches. 

All  the  tim.3,  he  submitted  with  a  good  grace  to  do 
whatever  she  proposed,  and  on  this  afternoon  he  found 
himself  waiting  for  her  beside  the  band-stand.  At  first 
he  watched  the  passing  carriages  indifferently  enough, 
supposing  that  his  own  liveries  would  presently  loom  up 
in  the  long  line  of  high-seated  coachmen  and  lacqueys, 
and  having  no  especial  desire  to  see  them.  His  position 
when  in  Corona's  company  grew  every  day  more  diffi 
cult,  and  he  thought  as  he  stood  by  the  stone  pillar  at 
the  corner  that  he  would  on  the  whole  be  glad  if  she  did 
not  come.  He  was  egregiously  mistaken  in  himself, 
however.  As  the  minutes  passed  he  grew  uneasy,  and 
watched  the  advancing  carriages  with  a  feverish  anxiety, 
saying  to  himself  that  every  one  must  bring  Corona,  and 
actually  growing  pale  with  emotion  as  each  vehicle 
turned  the  distant  corner  and  came  into  view.  The  time 
seemed  interminable  after  he  had  once  yielded  to  the 
excitement,  and  before  another  quarter  of  an  hour  had 
elapsed,  Sant'  Ilario  turned  angrily  away  and  left  the 
Pincio  by  the  stairs  that  descend  near  the  band-stand 
towards  the  winding  drive  by  which  the  Piazza  del 
Popolo  is  reached. 

It  is  not  easy  for  a  person  who  is  calm  to  comprehend 
the  workings  of  a  brain  over  excited  with  a  strong  pas 
sion.  To  a  man  who  has  lost  the  sober  use  of  his  facul 
ties  in  the  belief  that  he  has  been  foully  betrayed,  every 
circumstance,  every  insignificant  accident,  seems  a  link 
in  the  chain  of  evidence.  A  week  earlier  Giovanni 
would  have  thought  himself  mad  if  the  mere  idea  had 


140  SANT'  ILARIO. 

suggested  itself  to  him  that  Corona  loved  Gouache. 
To-day  he  believed  that  she  had  purposely  sent  him  to 
wait  upon  the  Pincio,  in  order  that  she  might  be  sure  of 
seeing  Gouache  without  fear  of  interruption.  The  con 
viction  thrust  itself  upon  him  with  overwhelming  force. 
He  fancied  himself  the  dupe  of  a  common  imposition,  he 
saw  his  magnificent  love  and  trust  made  the  sport  of  a 
vulgar  trick.  The  blood  mounted  to  his  dark  face  and 
as  he  descended  the  steps  a  red  mist  seemed  to  be  spread 
between  his  eyes  and  all  surrounding  objects.  Though 
he  walked  firmly  and  mechanically,  saluting  his  acquaint 
ances  as  he  passed,  he  was  unconscious  of  his  actions, 
and  moved  like  a  man  under  the  influence  of  a  superior 
force.  Jealousy  is  that  one  of  all  the  passions  which  is 
most  sure  to  break  out  suddenly  into  deeds  of  violence 
when  long  restrained. 

Giovanni  scarcely  knew  how  he  reached  the  Corso  nor 
how  it  was  that  he  found  himself  ascending  the  dusky 
staircase  which  led  to  Gouache's  lodgings.  It  was  less 
than  a  quarter  of  an  hour  since  San  Giacinto  had  been 
there,  and  the  old  woman  still  held  her  pot  of  coals  in 
her  hand  as  she  opened  the  door.  As  she  had  pointed 
to  the  door  when  San  Giacinto  had  come,  so  she  now 
directed  Giovanni  in  the  same  way.  But  Giovanni,  on 
hearing  that  Anastase  was  out,  began  to  ask  questions. 

"Has  any  one  been  here?"  he  inquired. 

"Eh!  There  was  a  gentleman  a  quarter  of  an  hour 
ago,"  replied  the  woman. 

"Has  any  lady  been  here?" 

"A  lady?  Macche!"  The  old  creature  laughed. 
"What  should  ladies  do  here?" 

Giovanni  thought  he  detected  some  hesitation  in  the 
tone.  He  was  in  the  mood  to  fancy  himself  deceived  by 
every  one. 

"Are  you  fond  of  money?"  he  asked,  brutally. 

"Eh!  I  am  an  old  woman.  What  would  you  have? 
Am  I  crazy  that  I  should  not  like  money?  But  Signor 
Gouache  is  a  very  good  gentleman.  He  pays  well,  thank 
Heaven ! " 

"What  does  he  pay  you  for?" 

"What  for?  For  his  lodging  —  for  his  coffee.  Bacchus! 
What  should  he  pay  me  for?  Strange  question  in  truth. 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  141 

Do  I  keep  a  shop?  I  keep  lodgings.  But  perhaps  you 
like  the  place?  It  is  a  fine  situation  —  just  in  the  Corso 
and  only  one  flight  of  stairs,  a  beautiful  position  for  the 
Carnival.  Of  course,  if  you  are  inclined  to  pay  more 
than  Signer  Gouache,  I  do  not  say  but  what " 

"I  do  not  want  your  lodgings,  my  good  woman," 
returned  Giovanni  in  gentler  tones.  "  I  want  to  know 
who  comes  to  see  your  lodger." 

"Who  should  come?  His  friends  of  course.  Who 
else?" 

"A  lady,  perhaps,"  said  Giovanni  in  a  thick  voice. 
It  hurt  him  to  say  it,  and  the  words  almost  stuck  in  his 
throat.  "  Perhaps  a  lady  comes  sometimes, "  he  repeated, 
pulling  out  some  loose  bank  notes. 

The  old  woman's  filmy  eyes  suddenly  twinkled  in  the 
gloom.  The  sound  of  the  crisp  pieces  of  paper  was 
delightful  to  her  ear. 

"Well,"  she  said  after  a  moment's  hesitation,  "if  a 
beautiful  lady  does  come  here,  that  is  the  Signore's 
affair.  It  is  none  of  my  business." 

Giovanni  thrust  the  notes  into  her  palm,  which  was 
already  wide  open  to  receive  them.  His  heart  beat 
wildly. 

"She  is  beautiful,  you  say?" 

"  Oh !     As  beautiful  as  you  please ! "  chuckled  the  hag. 

"Is  she  dark?" 

"Of  course,"  replied  the  woman.  There  was  no  mis 
taking  the  tone  in  which  the  question  was  asked,  for 
Giovanni  was  no  longer  able  to  conceal  anything  that  he 
felt. 

"And  tall,  I  suppose?  Yes.  And  she  was  here  a 
quarter  of  an  hour  ago,  you  say?  Speak  out ! "  he  cried, 
advancing  a  step  towards  the  old  creature.  "If  you  lie 
to  me,  I  will  kill  you !  She  was  here  —  do  not  deny  it. " 

"  Yes  —  yes, "  answered  the  woman,  cowering  back  in 
some  terror.  "Per  carita!  Don't  murder  me  —  I  tell 
you  the  truth." 

With  a  sudden  movement  Giovanni  turned  on  his  heel 
and  entered  Gouache's  sitting-room.  It  was  now  almost 
dark  in  the  house  and  he  struck  a  match  and  lighted  a 
candle  that  stood  on  the  stable.  The  glare  illuminated 
his  swarthy  features  and  fiery  eyes,  and  the  veins  stood 


142  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

out  on  his  forehead  and  temples  like  strained  and  twisted 
cords.  He  looked  about  him  in  every  direction,  exam 
ining  the  table,  strewn  with  papers  and  books,  the  floor, 
the  furniture,  expecting  every  moment  to  find  something 
which  should  prove  that  Corona  had  been  there.  Seeing 
nothing,  he  entered  the  bedroom  beyond.  It  was  a  small 
chamber  and  he  had  scarcely  passed  through  the  door 
when  he  found  himself  before  the  toilet-table.  The  note 
San  Giacinto  had  left  was  there  pinned  upon  the  little 
cushion  with  the  gold  pin,  as  he  had  placed  it. 

Giovanni  stared  wildly  at  the  thing  for  several  seconds 
and  his  face  grew  deadly  white.  There  was  no  evidence 
lacking  now,  for  the  pin  was  Corona's  own.  It  was  a 
simple  enough  object,  made  of  plain  gold,  the  head  being 
twisted  into  the  shape  of  the  letter  C,  but  there  was  no 
mistaking  its  identity,  for  Giovanni  had  designed  it 
himself.  Corona  used  it  for  fastening  her  veil. 

As  the  blood  sank  from  his  head  to  his  heart  Giovanni 
grew  very  calm.  He  set  the  candle  upon  the  toilet-table 
and  took  the  note,  after  putting  the  pin  in  his  pocket. 
The  handwriting  seemed  to  be  feigned,  and  his  lip  curled 
scornfully  as  he  looked  at  it  and  then,  turning  it  over, 
saw  that  the  envelope  was  one  of  Corona's  own.  It 
seemed  to  him  a  pitiable  piece  of  folly  in  her  to  distort 
her  writing  when  there  was  such  abundant  proof  on  all 
sides  to  convict  her.  Without  the  slightest  hesitation 
he  opened  the  letter  and  read  it,  bending  down  and  hold 
ing  it  near  the  candle.  One  perusal  was  enough.  He 
smiled  curiously  as  he  read  the  words,  "  I  am  so  watched 
that  I  can  do  nothing.  Some  one  suspects  something." 
His  attention  was  arrested  by  the  statement  that  a  trusty 
person  —  the  words  were  underlined  —  would  bring  the 
note.  The  meaning  of  the  emphasis  was  explained  by 
the  pin;  the  trusty  person  was  herself,  who,  perhaps  by 
an  afterthought,  had  left  the  bit  of  gold  as  a  parting  gift 
in  case  Gouache  marched  before  they  met  again. 

Giovanni  glanced  once  more  round  the  room,  half 
expecting  to  find  some  other  convicting  piece  of  evi 
dence.  Then  he  hesitated,  holding  the  candle  in  one 
hand  and  the  note  in  the  other.  He  thought  of  stayip.g 
where  he  was  and  waiting  for  Gouache,  but  the  idea  did 
not  seem  feasible.  Nothing  which  implied  waiting 


BANT'  ILARIO.  143 

could  have  satisfied  him  at  that  moment,  and  after  a 
few  seconds  he  thrust  the  note  into  his  pocket  and  went 
out.  His  hand  was  on  the  outer  door,  when  he  remem 
bered  the  old  woman  who  sat  crouching  over  her  pan  of 
coals,  scarcely  able  to  believe  her  good  luck,  and  longing 
for  Giovanni's  departure  in  order  that  she  might  count 
the  crisp  notes  again.  She  dared  not  indulge  herself  in 
that  pleasure  while  he  was  present,  lest  he  should  repent 
of  his  generosity  and  take  back  a  part  of  them,  for  she 
had  seen  how  he  had  taken  them  from  his  pocket  and 
saw  that  he  had  no  idea  how  much  he  had  given. 

"  You  will  say  nothing  of  my  coming,"  said  Giovanni, 
fixing  his  eyes  upon  her. 

"I,  Signore?  Do  not  be  afraid!  Money  is  better 
than  words." 

"Very  good,"  he  answered.  " Perhaps  you  will  get 
twice  as  much  the  next  time  I  want  to  know  the  truth." 

"  God  bless  you ! "  chuckled  the  wrinkled  creature. 
He  went  out,  and  the  little  bell  that  was  fastened  to  the 
door  tinkled  as  the  latch  sprang  back  into  its  place. 
Then  the  woman  counted  the  price  of  blood,  which  had 
so  unexpectedly  fallen  into  her  hands.  The  bank-notes 
were  many  and  broad,  and  crisp  and  new,  for  Giovanni 
had  not  reckoned  the  cost.  It  was  long  since  old  Cate- 
rina  Eanucci  had  seen  so  much  money,  and  she  had 
certainly  never  had  so  much  of  her  own. 

"  Qualche  innamorato ! "  she  muttered  to  herself  as  she 
smoothed  the  notes  one  by  one  and  gloated  over  them 
and  built  castles  in  the  air  under  the  light  of  her  little 
oil  lamp.  "  It  is  some  fellow  in  love.  Heaven  pardon 
me  if  I  have  done  wrong!  He  seemed  so  anxious  to 
know  that  the  woman  had  been  here  —  why  should  I  not 
content  him?  Poveretto!  He  must  be  rich.  I  will 
always  tell  him  what  he  wants  to  know.  Heaven  bring 
him  often  and  bless  him." 

Then  she  rocked  herself  backwards  and  forwards,  hug 
ging  her  pot  of  coals  and  crooning  the  words  of  an  ancient 
Roman  ditty  — 

"  Io  vorrei  che  nella  luna 
Ci  s'andasse  in  carrettella 
Per  vedere  la  piu  bella 
Delle  donne  di  la  sti  !  " 


144  SANT'  ILABIO. 

What  does  the  old  song  mean?  Who  knows  whether 
it  ever  meant  anything?  "  I  wish  one  might  drive  in  a 
little  cart  to  the  moon,  to  see  the  most  beautiful  of  the 
women  up  there ! "  Caterina  Ranucci  somehow  felt  as 
though  she  could  express  her  feelings  in  no  better  way 
than  by  singing  the  queer  words  to  herself  in  her  cracked 
old  voice.  Possibly  she  thought  that  the  neighbours 
would  not  suspect  her  good  fortune  if  they  heard  her 
favourite  song. 


CHAPTER   X. 

Sant'  Ilario  walked  home  from  Gouache's  lodgings. 
The  cool  evening  air  refreshed  him  and  helped  him  to 
think  over  what  he  had  before  him  in  the  near  future. 
Indeed  the  position  was  terrible  enough,  and  doubly  so 
to  a  man  of  his  temperament.  He  would  have  faced 
anything  rather  than  this,  for  there  was  no  point  in 
which  he  was  more  vulnerable  than  in  his  love  for 
Corona.  As  he  walked  her  figure  rose  before  him,  and 
her  beauty  almost  dazzled  him  when  he  thought  of  it. 
But  he  could  no  longer  think  of  her  without  bringing  up 
that  other  being  upon  whom  his  thoughts  of  vengeance 
concentrated  themselves,  until  it  seemed  as  though  the 
mere  intention  must  do  its  object  some  bodily  harm. 

The  fall  was  tremendous  in  itself  and  in  its  effects. 
It  must  have  been  a  great  passion  indeed  which  could 
make  such  a  man  demean  himself  to  bribe  an  inferior  for 
information  against  his  wife.  He  himself  was  so  little 
able  to  measure  the  force  by  which  he  was  swayed  as  to 
believe  that  he  had  extracted  the  confession  from  a 
reluctant  accomplice.  He  would  never  have  allowed 
that  the  sight  of  the  money  and  the  prompting  of  his 
own  words  could  have  caused  the  old  woman  to  invent 
the  perfectly  imaginary  story  which  he  had  seemed  so 
fully  determined  to  hear.  He  did  not  see  that  Caterina 
Eanucci  had  merely  confirmed  each  statement  he  had 
made  himself  and  had  taken  his  bribe  while  laughing  to 
herself  at  his  folly.  He  was  blinded  by  something 


ILARIO.  145 

which  destroys  the  mental  vision  more  surely  than  anger 
or  hatred,  or  pride,  or  love  itself. 

To  some  extent  he  was  to  be  pardoned.  The  chain  of 
circumstantial  evidence  was  consecutive  and  so  convinc 
ing  that  many  a  just  person  would  have  accepted  Corona's 
guilt  as  the  only  possible  explanation  of  what  had  hap 
pened.  The  discoveries  he  had  just  made  would  alone 
have  sufficed  to  set  up  a  case  against  her,  and  many  an 
innocent  reputation  has  been  shattered  by  less  substan 
tial  proofs.  Had  he  not  found  a  letter,  evidently  written 
in  a  feigned  hand  and  penned  upon  his  wife's  own  writ 
ing-paper,  fastened  upon  Gouache's  table  with  her  own 
pin?  Had  not  the  old  woman  confessed  —  before  he  had 
found  the  note,  too,  —  that  a  lady  had  been  there  but  a 
short  time  before?  Did  not  these  facts  agree  singularly 
with  Corona's  having  left  him  to  wait  for  her  during 
that  interval  in  the  public  gardens?  Above  all,  did  not 
this  conclusion  explain  at  once  all  those  things  in  her 
conduct  which  had  so  much  disturbed  him  during  the 
past  week? 

What  was  this  story  of  Faustina  Monte varchi's  disap 
pearance?  The  girl  was  probably  Corona's  innocent 
accomplice.  Corona  had  left  the  house  at  one  o'clock 
in  the  morning  with  Gouache.  The  porter  had  not  seen 
any  other  woman.  The  fact  that  she  had  entered  the 
Palazzo  Montevarchi  with  Faustina  and  without  Anas- 
tase  proved  nothing,  except  that  she  had  met  the  young 
girl  somewhere  else,  it  mattered  little  where.  The  story 
that  Faustina  had  accidentally  shut  herself  into  a  room 
in  the  palace  was  an  invention,  for  even  Corona  admitted 
the  fact.  That  Faustina's  flight,  however,  and  the 
other  events  of  the  night  of  the  22d  had  been  arranged 
merely  in  order  that  Corona  and  Gouache  might  walk  in 
the  moonlight  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour,  Giovanni  did  not 
believe.  There  was  some  other  mystery  here  which  was 
yet  unsolved.  Meanwhile  the  facts  he  had  collected 
were  enough  —  enough  to  destroy  his  happiness  at  a 
single  blow.  And  yet  he  loved  Corona  even  now,  and 
though  his  mind  was  made  up  clearly  enough  concerning 
Gouache,  he  knew  that  he  could  not  part  from  the  woman 
he  adored.  He  thought  of  the  grim  old  fortress  at  Sara- 
cinesca  with  its  lofty  towers  and  impregnable  walls,  and 


146  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

when  he  reflected  that  there  was  but  one  possible  exit 
from  the  huge  mass  of  buildings,  he  said  to  himself  that 
Corona  would  be  safe  there  for  ever. 

He  had  the  instincts  of  a  fierce  and  unforgiving  race 
of  men,  who  for  centuries  had  held  the  law  in  their  own 
hands,  and  were  accustomed  to  wield  it  as  it  seemed  good 
in  their  own  eyes.  It  was  not  very  long  since  the  lords 
of  Saracinesca  had  possessed  the  right  of  life  and  death 
over  their  vassals,1  and  the  hereditary  traits  of  character 
which  had  been  fostered  by  ages  of  power  had  not  disap 
peared  with  the  decay  of  feudalism.  Under  the  circum 
stances  which  seemed  imminent,  it  would  not  have  been 
thought  unnatural  if  Giovanni  had  confined  his  wife 
during  the  remainder  of  her  days  in  his  castle  among 
the  mountains.  The  idea  may  excite  surprise  among 
civilised  Europeans  when  it  is  considered  that  the  events 
of  which  I  write  occurred  as  recently  as  1867,  but  it 
would  certainly  have  evoked  few  expressions  of  astonish 
ment  among  the  friends  of  the  persons  concerned.  To 
Giovanni  himself  it  seemed  the  only  possible  conclusion 
to  what  was  happening,  and  the  determination  to  kill 
Gouache  and  imprison  Corona  for  life  appeared  in  his 
eyes  neither  barbarous  nor  impracticable. 

He  did  not  hasten  his  pace  as  he  went  towards  his 
home.  There  was  something  fateful  in  his  regular  step 
and  marble  face  as  he  moved  steadily  to  the  accomplish 
ment  of  his  purpose.  The  fury  which  had  at  first 
possessed  him,  and  which,  if  he  had  then  encountered 
Gouache,  would  certainly  have  produced  a  violent  out 
break,  had  subsided  and  was  lost  in  the  certainty  of  his 
dishonour,  and  in  the  immensity  of  the  pain  he  suffered. 
Nothing  remained  to  be  done  but  to  tell  Corona  that  he 
knew  all,  and  to  inflict  upon  her  the  consequences  of  her 
crime  without  delay.  There  was  absolutely  no  hope 
left  that  she  might  prove  herself  innocent,  and  in  Gio 
vanni's  own  breast  there  was  no  hope  either,  no  hope  of 
ever  finding  again  his  lost  happiness,  or  of  ever  again 
setting  one  stone  upon  another  of  all  that  splendid  fabric 

1  Until  1870  the  right  of  life  and  death  was  still  held,  so  far  as  actual 
legality  was  concerned,  by  the  Dukes  of  Bracciano,  and  was  attached  to 
the  possession  of  the  title,  which  had  been  sold  and  subsequently  bought 
back  by  the  original  holders  of  it. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  147 

of  his  life  which  he  had  built  up  so  confidently  upon  the 
faith  of  the  woman  he  loved. 

As  he  reached  the  gates  of  his  home  he  grew  if  possi 
ble  paler  than  before,  till  his  face  was  positively  ghastly 
to  see,  and  his  eyes  seemed  to  sink  deeper  beneath  his 
brows,  while  their  concentrated  light  gleamed  more 
fiercely.  No  one  saw  him  enter,  for  the  porter  was  in 
his  lodge,  and  on  reaching  the  landing  of  the  stairs  Gio 
vanni  let  himself  into  the  apartments  with  a  latch-key. 

Corona  was  in  her  dressing-room,  a  high  vaulted  cham 
ber,  somewhat  sombrely  furnished,  but  made  cheerful  by 
a  fire  that  blazed  brightly  in  the  deep  old-fashioned 
chimney-piece.  Candles  were  lighted  upon  the  dressing- 
table,  and  a  shaded  lamp  stood  upon  a  low  stand  near  a 
lounge  beside  the  hearth.  The  princess  was  clad  in  a 
loose  wrapper  of  some  soft  cream-coloured  material, 
whose  folds  fell  gracefully  to  the  ground  as  she  lay  upon 
the  couch.  She  was  resting  before  dressing  for  dinner, 
and  the  masses  of  her  blue-black  hair  were  loosely  coiled 
upon  her  head  and  held  together  by  a  great  Spanish  comb 
thrust  among  the  tresses  with  a  careless  grace.  She  held 
a  book  in  her  slender,  olive-tinted  hand,  but  she  was  not 
reading;  her  head  lay  back  upon  the  cushions  and  the 
firelight  threw  her  features  into  strong  relief,  while  her 
velvet  eyes  reflected  the  flashes  of  the  dancing  flames  as 
she  watched  them.  Her  expression  was  serene  and  calm. 
She  had  forgotten  for  the  moment  the  little  annoyances 
of  the  last  few  days  and  was  thinking  of  her  happiness, 
contrasting  the  peace  of  her  present  life  with  what  she 
had  suffered  during  the  five  years  of  her  marriage  with 
poor  old  Astrardente.  Could  Giovanni  have  seen  her 
thus  his  heart  might  have  been  softened.  He  would  have 
asked  himself  how  it  was  possible  that  any  woman  guilty 
of  such  enormous  misdeeds  could  lie  there  watching  the 
fire  with  a  look  of  such  calm  innocence  upon  her  face. 

But  Giovanni  did  not  see  her  as  she  was.  Even  in  the 
extremity  of  his  anger  and  suffering  his  courtesy  did  not 
forsake  him,  and  he  knocked  at  his  wife's  door  before 
entering  the  room.  Corona  moved  from  her  position, 
and  turned  her  head  to  see  who  was  about  to  enter. 

"Come  in,"  she  said. 

She  started  when  she  saw  Giovanni's  face.     Dazzled 


148  SANT*   ILARIO. 

as  she  was  by  the  fire,  he  looked  to  her  like  a  dead  man. 
She  laid  one  hand  upon  the  arm  of  the  couch  as  though 
she  would  rise  to  meet  him.  He  shut  the  door  behind 
him  and  advanced  towards  her  till  only  a  couple  of  paces 
separated  them.  She  was  so  much  amazed  by  his  looks 
that  she  sat  quite  still  while  he  fixed  his  eyes  upon  her 
and  began  to  speak. 

"You  have  wrecked  my  life,"  he  said  in  a  strange,  low 
voice.  "I  have  come  to  tell  you  my  decision." 

She  thought  he  was  raving  mad,  and,  brave  as  she  was, 
she  shrank  back  a  little  upon  her  seat  and  turned  pale. 

"You  need  not  be  afraid  of  me,"  he  continued,  as  he 
noticed  the  movement.  "  I  am  not  going  to  kill  you.  I 
am  sorry  to  say  I  am  fool  enough  to  love  you  still." 

"Giovanni!"  cried  Corona  in  an  agonised  tone.  She 
could  find  no  words,  but  sprang  to  her  feet  and  threw  her 
arms  about  him,  gazing  imploringly  into  his  face.  His 
features  did  not  relax,  for  he  was  prepared  for  any  sort 
of  acting  on  her  part.  Without  hurting  her,  but  with  a 
strength  few  men  could  have  resisted,  he  forced  her  back 
to  her  seat,  and  then  retreated  a  step  before  he  spoke 
again.  She  submitted  blindly,  feeling  that  any  attempt 
to  thwart  him  must  be  utterly  useless. 

"I  know  what  you  have  done,"  he  said.  "You  can 
have  nothing  to  say.  Be  silent  and  listen  to  me.  You 
have  destroyed  the  greatest  happiness  the  world  ever 
knew.  You  have  dishonoured  me  and  mine.  You  have 
dragged  my  faith  in  you  —  God  knows  how  great  —  into 
the  mire  of  your  infamous  life.  And  worse  than  that  — 
I  could  almost  have  forgiven  that,  I  am  so  base  —  you 
have  destroyed  yourself " 

Corona  uttered  a  wild  cry  and  sank  back  upon  the 
cushions,  pressing  her  hands  over  her  ears  so  that  she 
might  not  hear  the  fearful  words. 

"  I  will  not  listen !  "  she  gasped.  "  You  are  mad  — 
mad !  "  Then  springing  up  once  more  she  again  clasped 
him  to  her  breast,  so  suddenly  that  he  could  not  escape 
her.  "  Oh,  my  poor  Giovanni !  "  she  moaned.  "  What 
has  happened  to  you?  Have  you  been  hurt?  Are  you 
dying?  For  Heaven's  sake  speak  like  yourself!  " 

He  seized  her  wrists  and  held  her  before  him  so  that 
she  was  forced  to  hear  what  he  said.  Even  then  his 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  149 

grasp  did  not  hurt  her.  His  hands  were  like  manacles 
of  steel  in  which  hers  could  turn  though  she  could  not 
withdraw  them. 

"  I  am  hurt  to  death, "  he  said,  between  his  teeth.  "  I 
have  been  to  Gouache's  rooms  and  have  brought  away 
your  letter  —  and  your  pin  —  the  pin  I  gave  you,  Corona. 
Do  you  understand  now,  or  must  I  say  more?" 

"My  letter?"  cried  Corona  in  the  utmost  bewilder 
ment. 

"Yes,"  he  answered,  releasing  her  and  instantly  pro 
ducing  the  note  and  the  gold  ornament.  "  Is  that  your 
paper?  Is  this  your  pin?  Answer  me  —  or  no!  they 
answer  for  themselves.  You  need  say  nothing,  for  you 
can  have  nothing  to  say.  They  are  yours  and  you  know 
it.  If  they  are  not  enough  there  is  the  woman  who  let  you 
in,  who  saw  you  bring  them.  What  more  do  you  want?  " 

As  long  as  Giovanni's  accusations  had  been  vague  and 
general,  Corona  had  remained  horrorstruck,  believing 
that  some  awful  and  incomprehensible  calamity  had  be 
fallen  her  husband  and  had  destroyed  his  reason.  The 
moment  he  produced  the  proof  of  what  he  said,  her  pres 
ence  of  mind  returned,  and  she  saw  at  a  glance  the  true 
horror  of  the  situation.  She  never  doubted  for  a  moment 
that  she  was  the  victim  of  some  atrocious  plot,  but  hav 
ing  something  to  face  which  she  could  understand  her 
great  natural  courage  asserted  itself.  She  was  not  a 
woman  to  moan  and  weep  helplessly  when  there  was  an 
open  danger  to  be  met. 

She  took  the  letter  and  the  pin  and  examined  them  by 
the  light,  with  a  calmness  that  contrasted  oddly  with  her 
previous  conduct.  Giovanni  watched  her.  He  supposed 
that  she  had  acted  surprise  until  he  had  brought  for 
ward  something  more  conclusive  than  words,  and  that 
she  was  now  exercising  her  ingenuity  in  order  to  explain 
the  situation.  His  lip  curled  scornfully,  as  he  fancied 
he  saw  the  meaning  of  her  actions.  After  a  few  seconds 
she  looked  up  and  held  out  the  two  objects  towards  him. 

"The  paper  is  mine,"  she  said,  "but  I  did  not  write 
the  letter.  The  pin  is  mine  too.  I  lost  it  more  than  a 
month  ago." 

"Of  course,"  replied  Giovanni,  coldly.  "I  expected 
that  you  would  say  that.  It  is  very  natural.  But  I  do 


150  SANT*   ILARIO. 

not  ask  you  for  any  explanations.  I  have  them  already. 
I  will  take  you  to  Saracinesca  to-morrow  morning  and 
you  will  have  time  to  explain  everything.  You  will  have 
your  whole  life  to  use,  until  you  die,  for  no  other  object. 
I  told  you  I  would  not  kill  you." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  are  in  earnest?  "  asked  Corona, 
her  voice  trembling  slightly. 

"  I  am  in  earnest.  Do  you  think  I  am  a  man  to  jest 
over  such  deeds  ?  " 

"And  do  you  think  I  am  a  woman  to  do  such  deeds? " 

"  Since  you  have  done  them  —  what  answer  can  there 
be?  Not  only  are  you  capable  of  them.  You  are  the 
woman  who  has  done  them.  Do  lifeless  things,  like 
these,  lie?" 

"No.  But  men  do.  I  believe  you,  Giovanni.  You 
found  these  things  in  Monsieur  Gouache's  rooms.  You 
were  told  I  put  them  there.  Whoever  told  you  so  uttered 
the  most  infamous  falsehood  that  ever  was  spoken  on 
earth.  The  person  who  placed  them  where  they  were 
did  so  in  the  hope  of  ruining  me.  Can  you  look  back 
into  the  past  and  tell  me  that  you  have  any  other  reason 
for  believing  in  this  foul  plot?" 

"Reasons?"  cried  Giovanni,  fiercely.  "Do  you  want 
more  reasons?  We  have  time.  I  will  give  you  enough  to 
satisfy  you  that  I  know  all  you  have  done.  Was  not  this 
man  for  ever  near  you  last  year,  wherever  you  met,  talk 
ing  with  you  in  low  tones,  showing  by  every  movement 
and  gesture  that  he  distinguished  you  with  his  base  love? 
Were  you  not  together  in  a  corner  last  Tuesday  night 
just  as  the  insurrection  broke  out?  Did  he  not  kiss  your 
hand  when  you  both  thought  no  one  was  looking?  " 

"  He  kissed  my  hand  before  every  one,"  replied  Corona, 
whose  wrath  was  slowly  gathering  as  she  saw  her  hus 
band's  determination  to  prove  her  guilty. 

"There  were  people  in  the  room,"  continued  Giovanni 
in  a  tone  of  concentrated  anger,  "  but  you  thought  no  one 
was  watching  you  —  I  could  see  it  in  your  manner  and  in 
your  eyes.  That  same  night  I  came  home  at  one  o'clock 
and  you  were  out.  You  had  gone  out  alone  with  that 
man,  expecting  that  I  would  not  return  so  soon  —  though 
it  was  late  enough,  too.  You  were  forced  to  admit  that 
you  were  with  him,  because  the  porter  had  seen  you  and 
had  told  me  the  man  was  a  Zouave." 


SANT'  ILARIO.  151 

"  I  will  tell  you  the  story,  since  you  no  longer  trust 
me,"  said  Corona,  proudly. 

"  I  have  no  doubt  you  will  tell  me  some  very  ingenious 
tale  which  will  explain  why,  although  you  left  my  house 
alone,  with  Gouache,  you  reached  the  Palazzo  Monte- 
varchi  alone  with  Faustina.  But  I  have  not  done.  He 
came  here  the  next  day.  You  treated  him  with  unex 
ampled  rudeness  before  me.  Half  an  hour  later  I  found 
you  together  in  the  drawing-room.  He  was  kissing  your 
hand  again.  You  were  saying  you  forgave  him  and  giving 
him  that  favourite  benediction  of  yours,  which  you  once 
bestowed  upon  me  under  very  similar  circumstances. 
Astrardente  was  alive  and  present  at  that  dance  in  Casa 
Frangipani.  You  have  me  for  a  husband  now  and  you 
have  found  another  man  whose  heart  will  beat  when  you 
bless  him.  It  would  be  almost  better  to  kill  you  after 
all." 

"  Have  you  finished?  "  asked  Corona,  white  with  anger. 

"Yes.  That  letter  and  that  pin  —  left  while  I,  poor 
fool,  was  waiting  for  you  this  afternoon  on  the  Pincio  — 
those  things  are  my  last  words.  They  close  the  tale  very 
appropriately.  I  wish  I  did  not  love  you  so  —  I  would 
not  wait  for  your  answer." 

"  Do  you  dare  to  say  you  love  me?  " 

"  Yes  —  though  there  is  no  other  man  alive  who  would 
dare  so  much,  who  would  dare  to  love  such  a  woman  as 
you  are  —  for  very  shame." 

"  And  I  tell  you, "  answered  Corona  in  ringing  tones, 
"that,  although  I  can  prove  to  you  that  every  word  you 
say  against  me  is  an  abominable  calumny,  so  that  you 
shall  see  how  basely  you  have  insulted  an  innocent 
woman,  yet  I  shall  never  love  you  again  —  never,  never. 
A  man  who  can  believe  such  things,  who  can  speak  such 
things,  is  worthy  of  no  woman's  love  and  shall  not  have 
mine.  And  yet  you  shall  hear  me  tell  the  truth,  that  you 
may  know  what  you  have  done.  You  say  I  have  wrecked 
your  life  and  destroyed  your  happiness.  You  have  done 
it  for  yourself.  As  there  is  a  God  in  Heaven " 

"Do  not  blaspheme,"  said  Giovanni,  contemptuously. 
"I  will  hear  your  story." 

"  Before  God,  this  thing  is  a  lie !  "  cried  Corona,  stand 
ing  at  her  full  height,  her  eyes  flashing  with  just  indig 
nation.  Then  lowering  her  voice,  she  continued  speaking 


152  SANT'  ILARIO. 

rapidly  but  distinctly.  "Gouache  loves  Faustina,  and 
she  loves  him.  When  he  left  this  house  that  night  she 
followed  him  out  into  the  street.  She  reached  the  Ser- 
ristori  barracks  and  was  stunned  by  the  explosion. 
Gouache  found  her  there  many  hours  later.  When  you 
saw  us  together  a  little  earlier  he  was  telling  me  he  loved 
her.  He  is  a  man  of  honour.  He  saw  that  the  only  way 
to  save  her  good  name  was  to  bring  her  here  and  let  me 
take  her  home.  He  sent  me  a  word  by  the  porter,  while 
she  waited  in  the  shadow.  I  ran  down  and  found  her 
there.  We  purposely  prevented  the  porter  from  seeing 
her.  I  took  her  to  her  father's  house,  and  sent  Gouache 
away,  for  I  was  angry  with  him.  I  believed  he  had  led 
an  innocent  girl  into  following  him  —  that  it  was  a  pre 
arranged  meeting  and  that  she  had  gone  not  realising 
that  there  was  a  revolution.  I  invented  the  story  of  her 
having  lost  herself  here,  in  order  to  shield  her.  The 
next  day  Gouache  came.  I  would  not  speak  to  him  and 
went  to  my  room.  The  servants  told  me  he  was  gone, 
but  as  I  was  coming  back  to  you  I  met  him.  He  stopped 
me  and  made  me  believe  what  is  quite  true,  for  Faustina 
has  acknowledged  it.  She  followed  him  of  her  own 
accord,  and  he  had  no  idea  that  she  was  not  safe  at 
home.  I  forgave  him.  He  said  he  was  going  to  the  fron 
tier  and  asked  me  to  give  him  a  blessing.  It  was  a 
foolish  idea,  perhaps,  but  I  did  as  he  wished.  If  you 
had  come  forward  like  a  man  instead  of  listening  we 
would  have  told  you  all.  But  you  suspected  me  even 
then.  I  do  not  know  who  told  you  that  I  had  been  to 
his  lodging  to-day.  The  carriage  was  stopped  by  a  crowd 
in  the  Tritone,  and  I  reached  the  Pincio  after  you  had 
gone.  As  for  the  pin,  I  lost  it  a  month  ago.  Gouache 
may  have  found  it,  or  it  may  have  been  picked  up  and 
sold,  and  he  may  have  chanced  to  buy  it.  I  never  wrote 
the  letter.  The  paper  was  either  taken  from  this  house 
or  was  got  from  the  stationer  who  stamps  it  for  us. 
Faustina  may  have  taken  it  —  she  may  have  been  here 
when  I  was  out  —  it  is  not  her  handwriting.  I  believe 
it  is  an  abominable  plot.  But  it  is  as  transparent  as 
water.  Take  the  pin  and  wear  it.  See  Gouache  when 
you  have  it.  He  will  ask  you  where  you  got  it,  for  he 
has  not  the  slightest  idea  that  it  is  mine.  Are  you  satis- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  153 

fied?  I  have  told  you  all.  Do  you  see  what  you  have 
done,  in  suspecting  me,  in  accusing  me,  in  treating  me 
like  the  last  of  women?  I  have  done.  What  have  you 
to  say?" 

"  That  you  have  told  a  very  improbable  story, "  replied 
Giovanni.  "  You  have  sunk  lower  than  before,  for  you 
have  cast  a  slur  upon  an  innocent  girl  in  order  to  shield 
yourself.  I  would  not  have  believed  you  capable  of  that. 
You  can  -no  more  prove  your  innocence  than  you  can 
prove  that  this  poor  child  was  mad  enough  to  follow 
Goiiache  into  the  street  last  Tuesday  night.  I  have  lis 
tened  to  you  patiently.  I  have  but  one  thing  more  to 
do  and  then  there  will  be  nothing  left  for  me  but  pa 
tience.  You  will  send  for  your  servants,  and  order  your 
effects  to  be  packed  for  the  journey  to  Saracinesca.  If 
it  suits  your  convenience  we  will  start  at  eleven  o'clock, 
as  I  shall  be  occupied  until  then.  I  advise  you  not  to 
see  my  father." 

Corona  stood  quite  still  while  he  spoke.  She  could 
not  realise  that  he  paid  no  attention  whatever  to  her 
story,  save  to  despise  her  the  more  for  having  implicated 
Faustina.  It  was  inconceivable  to  her  that  all  the  cir 
cumstances  should  not  now  be  as  clear  to  him  as  they 
were  to  herself.  From  the  state  of  absolute  innocence 
she  could  not  transfer  herself  in  a  moment  to  the  com 
prehension  of  all  he  had  suffered,  all  he  had  thought,  and 
all  he  had  recalled  before  accusing  her.  Even  had  that 
been  possible,  her  story  seemed  to  her  to  give  a  perfectly 
satisfactory  explanation  of  all  his  suspicions.  She  was 
wounded,  indeed,  so  deeply  that  she  knew  she  could 
never  recover  herself  entirely,  but  it  did  not  strike  her 
as  possible  that  all  she  had  said  should  produce  no  effect 
at  all.  And  yet  she  knew  his  look  and  his  ways,  and 
recognised  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  the  expression  of  a 
determination  which  it  would  be  hard  indeed  to  change. 
He  still  believed  her  guilty,  and  he  was  going  to  take 
her  away  to  the  dismal  loneliness  of  the  mountains  for  an 
indefinite  time,  perhaps  for  ever.  She  had  not  a  relation 
in  the  world  to  whom  she  could  appeal.  Her  mother 
had  died  in  her  infancy ;  her  father,  for  whom  she  sacri 
ficed  herself  in  marrying  the  rich  old  Duke  of  Astrar- 
dente,  was  dead  long  ago.  She  could  turn  to  no  one, 


154  SANT'  ILARIO. 

unless  it  were  to  Prince  Saracinesca  himself  —  and  Gio 
vanni  warned  her  not  to  go  to  his  father.  She  stood  for 
some  moments  looking  fixedly  at  him  as  though  trying 
to  read  his  thoughts,  and  he  returned  her  gaze  with 
unflinching  sternness.  The  position  was  desperate.  In 
a  few  hours  she  would  be  where  there  would  be  no  pos 
sibility  of  defence  or  argument,  and  she  knew  the  man's 
character  well  enough  to  be  sure  that  where  proof  failed 
entreaty  would  be  worse  than  useless.  At  last  she  came 
near  to  him  and  almost  gently  laid  her  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"Giovanni,"  she  said,  quietly,  "I  have  loved  you 
very  tenderly  and  very  truly.  I  swear  to  you  upon  our 
child  that  I  am  wholly  innocent.  Will  you  not  believe 
me?" 

"No,"  he  answered,  and  the  little  word  fell  from  his 
lips  like  the  blow  of  a  steel  hammer.  His  eyes  did  not 
flinch ;  his  features  did  not  change. 

"Will  you  not  ask  some  one  who  knows  whether  I 
have  not  spoken  the  truth?  Will  you  not  let  me  write  — 
or  write  yourself  to  those  two,  and  ask  them  to  come 
here  and  tell  you  their  story?  It  is  much  to  ask  of  them, 
but  it  is  life  or  death  to  me  and  they  will  not  refuse. 
Will  you  not  do  it?" 

"No,  I  will  not." 

"  Then  do  what  you  will  with  me,  and  may  God  for 
give  you,  for  I  cannot." 

Corona  turned  from  him  and  crossed  the  room.  There 
was  a  cushioned  stool  there,  over  which  hung  a  beautiful 
crucifix.  Corona  knelt  down,  as  though  not  heeding  her 
husband's  presence,  and  buried  her  face  in  her  hands. 

Giovanni  stood  motionless  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
His  eyes  had  followed  his  wife's  movements  and  he 
watched  her  in  silence  for  a  short  time.  Convinced,  as 
he  was,  of  her  guilt,  he  believed  she  was  acting  a  part, 
and  that  her  kneeling  down  was  merely  intended  to  pro 
duce  a  theatrical  effect.  The  accent  of  truth  in  her 
words  made  no  impression  whatever  upon  him,  and  her 
actions  seemed  to  him  too  graceful  to  be  natural,  too 
dignified  for  a  woman  who  was  not  trying  all  the  time  to 
make  the  best  of  her  appearance.  The  story  she  had 
told  coincided  too  precisely,  if  possible,  with  the  doings 
of  which  he  had  accused  her,  while  it  failed  in  his  judg- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  155 

ment  to  explain  the  motives  of  what  she  had  clone.  He 
said  to  himself  that  he,  in  her  place,  would  have  told 
everything  on  that  first  occasion  when  she  had  come 
home  and  had  found  him  waiting  for  her.  He  forgot,  or 
did  not  realise,  that  she  had  been  taken  unawares,  when 
she  expected  to  find  time  to  consider  her  course,  and  had 
been  forced  to  make  up  her  mind  suddenly.  Almost  any 
other  woman  woiild  have  told  the  whole  adventure  at 
once;  any  woman  less  wholly  innocent  of  harm  would 
have  seen  the  risk  she  incurred  by  asking  her  husband's 
indulgence  for  her  silence.  He  was  persuaded  that  she 
had  played  upon  his  confidence  in  her  and  had  reckoned 
upon  his  belief  in  her  sincerity  in  order  to  be  bold  with 
half  the  truth.  Suspicion  and  jealousy  had  made  him 
so  ingenious  that  he  imputed  to  her  a  tortuous  policy  of 
deception,  of  which  she  was  altogether  incapable. 

Corona  did  not  kneel  long.  She  had  no  intention  of 
making  use  of  the  appearance  of  prayer  in  order  to  affect 
Giovanni's  decision,  nor  in  order  to  induce  him  to  leave 
her  alone.  He  would,  indeed,  have  quitted  the  room 
had  she  remained  upon  her  knees  a  few  moments  longer, 
but  when  she  rose  and  faced  him  once  more  he  was 
still  standing  as  she  had  left  him,  his  eyes  fixed  upon 
her  and  his  arms  folded  upon  his  breast.  He  thought 
she  was  going  to  renew  her  defence,  but  he  was  mis 
taken.  She  came  and  stood  before  him,  so  that  a  little 
distance  separated  him  from  her,  and  she  spoke  calmly, 
in  her  deep,  musical  voice. 

"  You  have  made  up  your  mind,  then.  Is  that  your 
last  word?  " 

"It  is." 

"  Then  I  will  say  what  I  have  to  say.  It  shall  not  be 
much,  but  we  shall  not  often  talk  together  in  future. 
You  will  remember  some  day  what  I  tell  you.  I  am  an 
innocent  and  defenceless  woman.  I  have  no  relation  to 
whom  I  can  appeal.  You  have  forbidden  me  to  write  to 
those  who  could  prove  me  guiltless.  For  the  sake  of  our 
child  —  for  the  sake  of  the  love  I  have  borne  you  —  I 
will  make  no  attempt  at  resistance.  The  world  shall  not 
know  that  you  have  even  doubted  me,  the  mother  of 
your  son,  the  woman  who  has  loved  you.  The  time  will 
come  when  you  will  ask  my  forgiveness  for  your  deeds. 


156  SANT'  ILARIO. 

I  tell  you  frankly  that  I  shall  never  be  capable  of  for 
giving  you,  nor  of  speaking  a  kind  word  to  you  again. 
This  is  neither  a  threat  nor  a  warning,  though  it  may 
perhaps  be  the  means  of  sparing  you  some  disappoint 
ment.  I  only  ask  two  things  of  your  courtesy  —  that 
you  will  inform  me  of  what  you  mean  to  do  with  our 
child,  and  that  you  will  then  be  good  enough  to  leave 
me  alone  for  a  little  while." 

An  evil  thought  crossed  Giovanni's  mind.  He  knew 
how  Corona  would  suffer  if  she  were  not  allowed  either 
to  see  little  Orsino  or  to  know  what  became  of  him 
while  she  was  living  her  solitary  life  of  confinement  in 
the  mountains.  The  diabolical  cruelty  of  the  idea  fas 
cinated  him  for  a  moment,  and  he  looked  coldly  into  her 
eyes  as  though  he  did  not  mean  to  answer  her.  In  spite 
of  his  new  jealousy,  however,  he  was  not  capable  of 
inflicting  this  last  blow.  As  he  looked  at  her  beautiful 
white  face  and  serious  eyes,  he  wavered.  He  loved  her 
still  and  would  have  loved  her,  had  the  proofs  against  her 
been  tenfold  more  convincing  than  they  were.  With 
him  his  love  was  a  passion  apart  and  by  itself.  It  had 
been  strengthened  and  made  beautiful  by  the  devotion 
and  tenderness  and  faith  which  had  grown  up  with  it, 
and  had  surrounded  it  as  with  a  wall.  But  though  all 
these  things  were  swept  away  the  passion  itself  remained, 
fierce,  indomitable  and  soul-stirring  in  its  power.  It 
stood  alone,  like  the  impregnable  keep  of  a  war-worn 
fortress,  beneath  whose  shadow  the  outworks  and  ram 
parts  have  been  razed  to  the  ground,  and  whose  own 
lofty  walls  are  battered  and  dinted  by  engines  of  war, 
shorn  of  all  beauty  and  of  all  its  stately  surroundings, 
but  stern  and  unshaken  yet,  grim,  massive  and  solitary. 

For  an  instant  Giovanni  wavered,  unable  to  struggle 
against  that  mysterious  power  which  still  governed  him 
and  forced  him  to  acknowledge  its  influence.  The  effort 
of  resisting  the  temptation  to  be  abominably  cruel  carried 
him  back  from  his  main  purpose,  and  produced  a  sudden 
revulsion  of  feeling  wholly  incomprehensible  to  himself. 

"  Corona ! "  he  cried,  in  a  voice  breaking  with  emotion. 
He  threw  out  his  arms  wildly  and  sprang  towards  her. 
She  thrust  him  back  with  a  strength  of  which  he  would 
not  have  believed  her  capable.  Bitter  words  rose  to  he? 


SANT'  ILARIO.  157 

lips,  but  she  forced  them  back  and  was  silent,  though 
her  eyes  blazed  with  an  anger  she  had  never  felt  before. 
For  some  time  neither  spoke.  Corona  stood  erect  and 
watchful,  one  hand  resting  upon  the  back  of  a  chair. 
Giovanni  walked  to  the  end  of  the  room,  and  then  came 
back  and  looked  steadily  into  her  face.  Several  seconds 
elapsed  before  he  could  speak,  and  his  face  was  very 
white. 

"You  may  keep  the  child,"  he  said  at  last,  in  an 
unsteady  tone.  Then  without  another  word  he  left  the 
room  and  softly  closed  the  door  behind  him. 

When  Corona  was  alone  she  remained  standing  as  he 
had  last  seen  her,  her  gaze  fixed  on  the  heavy  curtains 
through  which  he  had  disappeared.  Gradually  her  face 
grew  rigid,  and  the  expression  vanished  from  her  deep 
eyes,  till  they  looked  dull  and  glassy.  She  tottered, 
lost  her  hold  upon  the  chair  and  fell  to  the  floor  with  an 
inarticulate  groan.  There  she  lay,  white,  beautiful  and 
motionless  as  a  marble  statue,  mercifully  unconscious, 
for  a  space,  of  all  she  had  to  suffer. 

Giovanni  went  from  his  wife's  presence  to  his  father's 
study.  The  prince  sat  at  his  writing-table,  a  heap  of 
dusty  parchments  and  papers  piled  before  him.  He  was 
untying  the  rotten  strings  with  which  they  were  fast 
ened,  peering  through  his  glasses  at  the  headings  written 
across  the  various  documents.  He  did  not  unfold  them, 
but  laid  them  carefully  in  order  upon  the  table.  When 
San  Giacinto  had  gone  away,  the  old  gentleman  had  noth 
ing  to  do  for  an  hour  or  more  before  dinner.  He  had 
accordingly  opened  a  solid  old  closet  in  the  library  which 
served  as  a  sort  of  muniment  room  for  the  family 
archives,  and  had  withdrawn  a  certain  box  in  which  he 
knsw  that  the  deeds  concerning  the  cession  of  title  were 
to  be  found.  He  did  not  intend  to  look  them  over  this 
evening,  but  was  merely  arranging  them  for  examination 
on  the  morrow.  He  looked  up  as  Giovanni  entered,  and 
started  from  his  chair  when  he  saw  his  son's  face. 

"  Good  heavens !  Giovannino !  what  has  happened?  "  he 
cried,  in  great  anxiety. 

"  I  came  to  tell  you  that  Corona  and  I  are  going  to 
Saracinesca  to-morrow, "  answered  Sant'  Ilario,  in  a  low 
voice. 


158  SANT'  ILABIO. 

"What?  At  this  time  of  year?  Besides,  you  cannot 
get  there.  The  road  is  full  of  Garibaldians  and  soldiers. 
It  is  not  safe  to  leave  the  city !  Are  you  ill  ?  What  is 
the  matter?" 

"  Oh  —  nothing  especial, "  replied  Giovanni  with  an 
attempt  to  assume  an  indifferent  tone.  "  We  think  the 
mountain  air  will  be  good  for  my  wife,  that  is  all.  I  do 
not  think  we  shall  really  have  much  difficulty  in  getting 
there.  Half  of  this  war  is  mere  talk." 

"  And  the  other  half  consists  largely  of  stray  bullets, " 
observed  the  prince,  eyeing  his  son  suspiciously  from 
under  his  shaggy  brows.  "You  will  allow  me  to  say, 
Giovanni,  that  for  thoughtless  folly  you  have  rarely  had 
your  equal  in  the  world." 

"  I  believe  you  are  right, "  returned  the  younger  man 
bitterly.  "  Nevertheless  I  mean  to  undertake  this  jour- 
ney." 

"And  does  Corona  consent  to  it?  Why  are  you  so 
pale?  I  believe  you  are  ill?  " 

"Yes  —  she  consents.     We  shall  take  the  child." 

"Orsino?  You  are  certainly  out  of  your  mind.  It  is 
bad  enough  to  take  a  delicate  woman " 

"  Corona  is  far  from  delicate.  She  is  very  strong  and 
able  to  bear  anything." 

"Don't  interrupt  me.  I  tell  you  she  is  a  woman,  and 
so  of  course  she  must  be  delicate.  Can  you  not  under 
stand  common  sense?  As  for  the  boy,  he  is  my  grand 
son,  and  if  you  are  not  old  enough  to  know  how  to  take 
care  of  him,  I  am.  He  shall  not  go.  I  will  not  permit 
it.  You  are  talking  nonsense.  Go  and  dress  for  dinner, 
or  send  for  the  doctor  —  in  short,  behave  like  a  human 
being!  I  will  go  and  see  Corona  myself." 

The  old  gentleman's  hasty  temper  was  already  up, 
and  he  strode  to  the  door.  Giovanni  laid  his  hand  some 
what  heavily  upon  his  father's  arm. 

"Excuse  me,"  he  said,  "Corona  cannot  see  you  now. 
She  is  dressing." 

"  I  will  talk  to  her  through  the  door.  I  will  wait  in 
her  boudoir  till  she  can  see  me." 

"  I  do  not  think  she  will  see  you  this  evening.  She 
will  be  busy  in  getting  ready  for  the  journey." 

"She  will  dine  with  us,  I  suppose?" 


SANT'  ILARIO.  159 

"I  scarcely  know  —  I  am  not  sure." 

Old  Saracinesca  suddenly  turned  upon  his  son.  His 
gray  hair  bristled  on  his  head,  and  his  black  eyes  flashed. 
With  a  quick  movement  he  seized  Giovanni's  arms  and 
held  him  before  him  as  in  a  vice. 

"  Look  here !  "  he  cried  savagely.  "  I  will  not  be  made 
a  fool  of  by  a  boy.  Something  has  happened  which  you 
are  afraid  to  tell  me.  Answer  me.  I  mean  to  know!  " 

"You  will  not  know  from  me,"  replied  Sant'  Ilario, 
keeping  his  temper  as  he  generally  did  in  the  face  of  a 
struggle.  "You  will  know  nothing,  because  there  is 
nothing  to  know."  Saracinesca  laughed. 

"Then  there  can  be  no  possible  objection  to  my  seeing 
Corona,"  he  said,  dropping  his  hold  and  again  going 
towards  the  door.  Once  more  Giovanni  stopped  him. 

"You  cannot  see  her  now,"  he  said  in  determined 
tones. 

"Then  tell  me  what  all  this  trouble  is  about,"  retorted 
his  father. 

But  Giovanni  did  not  speak.  Had  he  been  cooler  he 
would  not  have  sought  the  interview  so  soon,  but  he  had 
forgotten  that  the  old  prince  would  certainly  want  to 
know  the  reason  of  the  sudden  journey. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  or  not?  " 

"The  fact  is,"  replied  Giovanni  desperately,  "we  have 
consulted  the  doctor  —  Corona  is  not  really  well  —  he 
advises  us  to  go  to  the  mountains " 

"  Giovanni, "  broke  in  the  old  man  roughly,  "  you  never 
lied  to  me,  but  you  are  lying  now.  There  has  been 
trouble  between  you  two,  though  I  cannot  imagine  what 
has  caused  it." 

"  Pray  do  not  ask  me,  then.  I  am  doing  what  I  think 
best  —  what  you  would  think  best  if  you  knew  all.  I 
came  to  tell  you  that  we  were  going,  and  I  did  not  sup 
pose  you  would  have  anything  to  say.  Since  you  do  not 
like  the  idea  —  well,  I  am  sorry  —  but  I  entreat  you  not 
to  ask  questions.  Let  us  go  in  peace." 

Saracinesca  looked  fixedly  at  his  son  for  some  minutes. 
Then  the  anger  faded  from  his  face,  and  his  expression 
grew  very  grave.  He  loved  Giovanni  exceedingly,  and 
he  loved  Corona  for  his  sake  more  than  for  her  own, 
though  he  admired  her  and  delighted  in  her  conversation. 


160  SANT'  ILARIO. 

It  was  certain  that  if  there  were  a  quarrel  between  hus 
band  and  wife,  and  if  Giovanni  had  the  smallest  show  of 
right  on  his  side,  the  old  man's  sympathies  would  be 
with  him. 

Giovanni's  sense  of  honour,  on  the  other  hand,  pre 
vented  him  from  telling  his  father  what  had  happened. 
He  did  not  choose  that  even  his  nearest  relation  should 
think  of  Corona  as  he  thought  himself,  and  he  would 
have  taken  any  step  to  conceal  her  guilt.  Unfortunately 
for  his  purpose  he  was  a  very  truthful  man,  and  had  no 
experience  of  lying,  so  that  his  father  detected  him  at 
once.  Moreover,  his  pale  face  and  agitated  manner  told 
plainly  enough  that  something  very  serious  had  occurred, 
and  so  soon  as  the  old  prince  had  convinced  himself  of 
this  his  goodwill  was  enlisted  on  the  side  of  his  son. 

"Giovannino,"  he  said  at  last  very  gently,  "I  do  not 
want  to  pry  into  your  secrets  nor  to  ask  you  questions 
which  you  do  not  care  to  answer.  I  do  not  believe  you 
are  capable  of  having  committed  any  serious  folly  which 
your  wife  could  really  resent.  If  you  should  be  unfaith 
ful  to  her,  I  would  disown  you.  If,  on  the  other  hand, 
she  has  deceived  you,  I  will  do  all  in  my  power  to  help 
you." 

Perhaps  Giovanni's  face  betrayed  something  of  the 
truth  at  these  words.  He  turned  away  and  leaned 
against  the  chimney-piece. 

"I  cannot  tell  you  —  I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  repeated. 
"  I  think  I  am  doing  what  is  best.  That  is  all  I  can  say. 
You  may  know  some  day,  though  I  trust  not.  Let  us  go 
away  without  explanations." 

"My  dear  boy,"  replied  the  old  man,  coining  up  to 
him  and  laying  his  hand  on  his  shoulder,  "you  must  do 
as  you  think  best.  Go  to  Saracinesca  if  you  will,  and  if 
you  can.  If  not,  go  somewhere  else.  Take  heart. 
Things  are  not  always  as  black  as  they  look." 

Giovanni  straightened  himself  as  though  by  an  effort, 
and  grasped  his  father's  broad,  brown  hand. 

"Thank  you,"  he  said.  "Good-bye.  I  will  come  down 
and  see  you  in  a  few  days.  Good-bye!  " 

His  voice  trembled  and  he  hurriedly  left  the  room. 
The  prince  stood  still  a  moment  and  then  threw  himself 
into  a  deep  chair,  staring  at  the  lamp  and  biting  his  gray 


SANT*   ILAKIO.  161 

moustache  savagely,  as  though  to  hide  some  almost 
uncontrollable  emotion.  There  was  a  slight  moisture  in 
his  eyes  as  they  looked  steadily  at  the  bright  lamp. 

The  papers  and  parchments  lay  unheeded  on  the  table, 
and  he  did  not  touch  them  again  that  night.  He  was 
thinking,  not  of  his  lonely  old  age  nor  of  the  dishonour 
brought  upon  his  house,  but  of  the  boy  he  had  loved  as 
his  own  soul  for  more  than  thirty  years,  and  of  a  swarthy 
little  child  that  lay  asleep  in  a  distant  room,  the  warm 
blood  tinging  its  olive  cheeks  and  its  little  clinched 
hands  thrown  back  above  its  head. 

For  Corona  he  had  no  thought  but  hatred.  He  had 
guessed  Giovanni's  secret  too  well,  and  his  heart  was 
hardened  against  the  woman  who  had  brought  shame  and 
suffering  upon  his  son. 


CHAPTER  XL 

San  Giacinto  had  signally  failed  in  his  attempt  to 
prevent  the  meeting  between  Gouache  and  Faustina 
Montevarchi,  and  had  unintentionally  caused  trouble  of 
a  much  more  serious  nature  in  another  quarter.  The 
Zouave  returned  to  his  lodging  late  at  night,  and  of 
course  found  no  note  upon  his  dressing-table.  He  did 
not  miss  the  pin,  for  he  of  course  never  wore  it,  and 
attached  no  particular  value  to  a  thing  of  such  small 
worth  which  he  had  picked  up  in  the  street  and  which 
consequently  had  no  associations  for  him.  He  lacked 
the  sense  of  order  in  his  belongings,  and  the  pin  had  lain 
neglected  for  weeks  among  a  heap  of  useless  little  trifles, 
dingy  cotillon  favours  that  had  been  there  since  the 
previous  year,  stray  copper  coins,  broken  pencils,  uni 
form  buttons  and  such  trash,  accumulated  during  many 
months  and  totally  unheeded.  Had  he  seen  the  pin 
anywhere  else  he  would  have  recognised  it,  but  he  did 
not  notice  its  absence.  The  old  woman,  Caterina  Ra- 
nucci,  hugged  her  money  and  said  nothing  about  either  of 
the  visitors  who  had  entered  the  room  during  the  after 
noon.  The  consequence  was  that  Gouache  rose  early  on 

M 


162  SANT'  ILARIO. 

the  following  morning  and  went  towards  the  church  with 
a  light  heart.  He  did  not  know  certainly  that  Faustina 
would  come  there,  and  indeed  there  were  many  probabil 
ities  against  her  doing  so;  but  in  the  hopefulness  of  a 
man  thoroughly  in  love,  Gouache  looked  forward  to 
seeing  her  with  as  much  assurance  as  though  the  matter 
had  been  arranged  and  settled  between  them. 

The  parish  church  of  Sant'  Agostino  is  a  very  large 
building.  The  masses  succeed  each  other  in  rapid  suc 
cession  from  seven  o'clock  in  the  morning  until  midday, 
and  a  great  crowd  of  parishioners  pass  in  and  out  in  an 
almost  constant  stream.  It  was  therefore  Gouache's 
intention  to  arrive  so  early  as  to  be  sure  that  Faustina 
had  not  yet  come,  and  he  trusted  to  luck  to  be  there  at 
the  right  time,  for  he  was  obliged  to  visit  the  temporary 
barrack  of  his  corps  before  going  to  the  church,  and  was 
also  obliged  to  attend  mass  at  a  later  hour  with  his 
battalion.  On  presenting  himself  at  quarters  he  learned 
to  his  surprise  that  Monte  Eotondo  had  not  surrendered 
yet,  though  news  of  the  catastrophe  was  expected  every 
moment.  The  Zouaves  were  ordered  to  remain  under 
arms  all  day  in  case  of  emergency,  and  it  was  only 
through  the  friendly  assistance  of  one  of  his  officers  that 
Anastase  obtained  leave  to  absent  himself  for  a  couple 
of  hours.  He  hailed  a  cab  and  drove  to  the  church  as 
fast  as  he  could. 

In  less  than  twenty  minutes  after  he  had  stationed 
himself  at  the  entrance,  Faustina  ascended  the  steps  ac 
companied  by  a  servant.  The  latter  was  a  middle-aged 
woman  with  hard  features,  clad  in  black,  and  wearing 
a  handkerchief  thrown  loosely  over  her  head  after  the 
manner  of  maids  in  those  days.  She  evidently  expected 
nothing,  for  she  looked  straight  before  her,  peering  into 
the  church  in  order  to  see  beforehand  at  which  chapel 
there  was  likely  to  be  a  mass  immediately.  Faustina 
was  a  lovely  figure  in  the  midst  of  the  crowd  of  common 
people  who  thronged  the  doorway,  and  whose  coarse  dark 
faces  threw  her  ethereal  features  into  strong  relief  while 
she  advanced.  Gouache  felt  his  heart  beat  hard,  for  he 
had  not  seen  her  for  five  days  since  they  had  parted  on 
that  memorable  Tuesday  night  at  the  gate  of  her  father's 
house.  Her  eyes  met  his  in  a  long  and  loving  look,  and 


ILARIO.  163 

the  colour  rose  faintly  in  her  delicate  pale  cheek.  In 
the  press  she  managed,  to  pass  close  to  him,  and  for  a 
moment  he  succeeded  in  clasping  her  small  hand  in  his, 
her  maid  being  on  the  other  side.  He  was  about  to  ask 
a  question  when,  she  whispered  a  few  words  and  passed. 
on. 

"  Follow  me  through  the  crowd,  I  will  manage  it, "  was 
what  she  said. 

Gouache  obeyed,  and  kept  close  behind  her.  The 
church  was  very  full  and  there  was  difficulty  in  getting 
seats. 

"I  will  wait  here,"  said  the  young  girl  to  her  servant. 
"  Get  us  chairs  and  find  out  where  thero  is  to  be  a  mass. 
It  is  of  no  use  for  me  to  go  through  the  crowd  if  I  may 
have  to  come  back  again." 

The  hard-featured  woman  nodded  and  went  away. 
Several  minutes  must  elapse  before  she  returned,  and 
Faustina  with  Gouache  behind  her  moved  across  the 
stream  of  persons  who  were  going  out  through  the  door 
in  the  other  aisle.  In  a  moment  they  found  themselves 
in  a  comparatively  quiet  corner,  separated  from  the  main 
body  of  the  church  by  the  moving  people.  Faustina 
fixed  her  eyes  in  the  direction  whence  her  woman  would 
probably  return,  ready  to  enter  the  throng  instantly,  if 
necessary.  Even  where  they  now  were,  so  many  others 
were  standing  and  kneeling  that  the  presence  of  the 
Zouave  beside  Faustina  would  create  no  surprise. 

"  It  is  very  wrong  to  meet  you  in  church, "  said  the  girl, 
a  little  shy,  at  first,  with  that  timidity  a  woman  always 
feels  on  meeting  a  man  whom  she  has  last  seen  on  un 
expectedly  intimate  terms. 

"I  could  not  go  away  without  seeing  you,"  replied 
Gouache,  his  eyes  intent  on  her  face.  "  And  I  knew  you 
would  understand  my  signs,  though  no  one  else  would. 
You  have  made  me  very  happy,  Faustina.  It  would  have 
been  agony  to  march  away  without  seeing  your  face  again 
—  you  do  not  know  what  these  days  have  been  without 
you !  Do  you  realise  that  we  used  to  meet  almost  every 
afternoon?  Did  they  tell  you  why  I  could  not  come?  I 
told  every  one  I  met,  in  hopes  you  might  hear.  Did 
you?  Do  you  understand?  " 

Faustina  nodded  her  graceful  head,  and  glanced  quickly 


164  SANT*   ILARIO. 

at  his  face.  Then  she  looked  down,  tapping  the  pavement 
gently  with  her  parasol.  The  colour  came  and  went  in 
her  cheeks. 

"Do  you  really  love  me?"  she  asked  in  a  low  voice. 

"I  think,  my  darling,  that  no  one  ever  loved  as  I  love. 
I  would  that  I  might  be  given  time  to  tell  you  what  my 
love  is,  and  that  you  might  have  patience  to  hear.  What 
are  words,  unless  one  can  say  all  one  would?  What  is  it, 
if  I  tell  you  that  I  love  you  with  all  my  heart,  and  soul 
and  thoughts?  Do  not  other  men  say  as  much  and  forget 
that  they  have  spoken?  I  would  find  a  way  of  saying  it 
that  should  make  you  believe  in  spite  of  yourself " 

"In  spite  of  myself?"  interrupted  Faustina,  with  a 
bright  smile  while  her  brown  eyes  rested  lovingly  on  his 
for  an  instant.  "You  need  not  that,"  she  added  simply, 
"for  I  love  you,  too." 

Nothing  but  the  sanctity  of  the  place  prevented  Anas- 
tase  from  taking  her  in  his  arms  then  and  there.  There 
was  something  so  exquisite  in  her  simplicity  and  earnest 
ness  that  he  found  himself  speechless  before  her  for  a 
moment.  It  was  something  that  intoxicated  his  spirit 
more  than  his  senses,  for  it  was  utterly  new  to  him  and 
appealed  to  his  own  loyal  and  innocent  nature  as  it  could 
not  have  appealed  to  a  baser  man. 

"Ah  Faustina!  "  he  said  at  last,  "God  made  you  when 
he  made  the  violets,  on  a  spring  morning  in  Paradise !  " 

Faustina  blushed  again,  faintly  as  the  sea  at  dawn. 

"Must  you  go  away?"  she  asked. 

"You  would  not  have  me  desert  at  such  a  moment?" 

"Would  it  be  deserting  —  quite?  Would  it  be  dishon 
ourable?" 

"  It  would  be  cowardly.  I  should  never  dare  to  look 
you  in  the  face  again." 

"I  suppose  it  would  be  wrong,"  she  answered  with  a 
bitter  little  sigh. 

"  I  will  come  back  very  soon,  dearest.  The  time  will 
be  short." 

"  So  long  —  so  long !  How  can  you  say  it  will  be  short? 
If  you  do  not  come  soon  you  will  find  me  dead  —  I  can 
not  bear  it  many  days  more." 

"I  will  write  to  you." 

"How  can  you  write?  Your  letters  would  be  seen. 
Oh  no!  It  is  impossible!  " 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  165 

"I  will  write  to  your  friend  —  to  the  Princess  Sant' 
Ilario.  She  will  give  you  the  letters.  She  is  safe,  is  she 
not?" 

"  Oh,  how  happy  I  shall  be !  It  will  be  almost  like 
seeing  you  —  no,  not  that !  But  so  much  better  than  noth 
ing.  But  you  do  not  go  at  once?" 

"  It  may  be  to-day,  to-morrow,  at  any  time.  But  you 
shall  know  of  it.  Ah  Faustina !  my  own  one " 

"  Hush !  There  is  my  maid.  Quick,  behind  the  pillar. 
I  will  meet  her.  Good-bye  —  good-bye  —  Oh !  not  good 
bye  —  some  other  word " 

"God  keep  you,  my  beloved,  and  make  it  not  'good 
bye  ' ! " 

With  one  furtive  touch  of  the  hand,  one  long  last  look, 
they  separated,  Faustina  to  mingle  in  the  crowd,  Gouache 
to  follow  at  a  long  distance  until  he  saw  her  kneeling  at 
her  chair  before  one  of  the  side  altars  of  the  church. 
Then  he  stationed  himself  where  he  could  see  her,  and 
watched  through  the  half  hour  during  which  the  low  mass 
lasted.  He  did  not  know  when  he  should  see  her  again, 
and  indeed  it  was  as  likely  as  not  that  they  should  not 
meet  on  this  side  of  eternity.  Many  a  gallant  young 
fellow  marched  out  in  those  days  and  was  picked  off  by  a 
bullet  from  a  red-shirted  volunteer.  Gouache,  indeed, 
did  not  believe  that  his  life  was  to  be  cut  short  so  sud 
denly,  and  built  castles  in  the  air  with  that  careless  de 
light  in  the  future  which  a  man  feels  who  is  not  at  all 
afraid.  But  such  accidents  happened  often,  and  though 
he  might  be  more  lucky  than  another,  it  was  just  as  pos 
sible  that  an  ounce  of  lead  should  put  an  end  to  his  sol 
diering,  his  painting  and  his  courtship  within  another 
week.  The  mere  thought  was  so  horrible  that  his  bright 
nature  refused  to  harbour  it,  and  he  gazed  on  Faustina 
Montevarchi  as  she  knelt  at  her  devotions,  wondering, 
indeed,  what  strange  chances  fate  had  in  store  for  them 
both,  but  never  once  doubting  that  she  should  one  day  be 
his.  He  waited  until  she  passed  him  in  the  crowd,  and 
gave  him  one  more  look  before  going  away.  Then,  when 
he  had  seen  her  disappear  at  the  turning  of  the  street,  he 
sprang  into  his  cab  and  was  driven  back  to  the  barracks 
where  he  must  remain  on  duty  all  day. 

As  he  descended  he  was  surprised  to  see  Sant'  Ilario 


166  SANT*   ILAKIO. 

standing  upon  the  pavement,  very  pale,  and  apparently 
in  a  bad  humour,  his  overcoat  buttoned  to  his  throat,  and 
his  hands  thrust  in  the  pockets.  There  was  no  one  in 
the  street,  but  the  sentinel  at  the  doorway,  and  Giovanni 
walked  quickly  up  to  Gouache  as  the  latter  fumbled  for 
the  change  to  pay  his  driver.  Anastase  smiled  and  made 
a  short  military  salute.  Sant'  Ilario  bowed  stiffly  and 
did  not  extend  his  hand. 

" I  tried  to  find  you  last  night,"  he  said  coldly.  "  You 
were  out.  Will  yon  favour  me  with  five  minutes'  con 
versation?  " 

"Willingly,"  answered  the  other,  looking  instinctively 
at  his  watch,  to  be  sure  that  he  had  time  to  spare. 

Sant'  Ilario  walked  a  few  yards  up  the  street,  before 
speaking,  Gouache  keeping  close  to  his  side.  Then  both 
stopped,  and  Giovanni  turned  sharply  round  and  faced 
his  enemy. 

"It  is  unnecessary  to  enter  into  any  explanations, 
Monsieur  Gouache, "  he  said.  "  This  is  a  matter  which 
can  only  end  in  one  way.  I  presume  you  will  see  the 
propriety  of  inventing  a  pretext  which  may  explain  our 
meeting  before  the  world." 

Gouache  stared  at  Sant'  Ilario  in  the  utmost  amaze 
ment.  When  they  had  last  met  they  had  parted  on  the 
most  friendly  terms.  He  did  not  understand  a  word  of 
what  his  companion  was  saying. 

"Excuse  me,  prince,"  he  said  at  length.  "I  have  not 
the  least  idea  what  you  mean.  As  far  as  I  am  concerned 
this  meeting  is  quite  accidental.  I  came  here  on  duty." 

Sant'  Ilario  was  somewhat  taken  aback  by  the  Zouave's 
polite  astonishment.  He  seemed  even  more  angry  than 
surprised,  however;  and  his  black  eyebrows  bent  together 
fiercely. 

"  Let  us  waste  no  words, "  he  said  imperiously.  "  If  I 
had  found  you  last  night,  the  affair  might  have  been  over 
by  this  time." 

"What  affair?"  asked  Gouache,  more  and  more  mys 
tified. 

"  You  are  amazingly  slow  of  comprehension,  Monsieur 
Gouache,"  observed  Giovanni.  "To  be  plain,  I  desire  to 
have  an  opportunity  of  killing  you.  Do  you  understand 
me  now?" 


SANT'  ILARIO.  167 

"Perfectly,"  returned  the  soldier,  raising  his  brows, 
and  then  breaking  into  a  laugh  of  genuine  amusement. 
"  You  are  quite  welcome  to  as  many  opportunities  as  you 
like,  though  I  confess  it  would  interest  me  to  know  the 
reason  of  your  good  intentions  towards  me." 

If  Gouache  had  behaved  as  Giovanni  had  expected  he 
would,  the  latter  would  have  repeated  his  request  that  a 
pretext  should  be  found  which  should  explain  the  duel  to 
the  world.  But  there  was  such  extraordinary  assurance 
in  the  Zouave's  manner  that  Sant'  Ilario  suddenly  became 
exasperated  with  him  and  lost  his  temper,  a  misfortune 
which  very  rarely  happened  to  him. 

"Monsieur  Gouache,"  he  said  angrily,  "I  took  the 
liberty  of  visiting  your  lodgings  yesterday  afternoon,  and 
I  found  this  letter,  fastened  with  this  pin  upon  your 
table.  I  presume  you  will  not  think  any  further  expla 
nation  necessary." 

Gouache  stared  at  the  objects  which  Sant'  Ilario  held 
out  to  him  and  drew  back  stiffly.  It  was  his  turn  to  be 
outraged  at  the  insult. 

"Sir,"  he  said,  "I  understand  that  you  acted  in  the 
most  impertinent  manner  in  entering  my  room  and  tak 
ing  what  did  not  belong  to  you.  I  understand  nothing 
else.  I  found  that  pin  on  the  Ponte  Sant'  Angelo  a 
month  ago,  and  it  was,  I  believe,  upon  my  table  yester 
day.  As  for  the  letter  I  know  nothing  about  it.  Yes, 
if  you  insist,  I  will  read  it." 

There  was  a  pause  during  which  Gouache  ran  his  eyes 
over  the  few  lines  written  on  the  notepaper,  while  Gio 
vanni  watched  him  very  pale  and  wrathful. 

"The  pin  is  my  wife's,  and  the  note  is  written  on  her 
paper  and  addressed  to  you,  though  in  a  feigned  hand. 
Do  you  deny  that  both  came  from  her,  were  brought  by 
her  in  person,  for  yourself?  " 

"I  deny  it  utterly  and  categorically,"  answered  Gou 
ache.  "  Though  I  will  assuredly  demand  satisfaction  of 
you  for  entering  my  rooms  without  my  permission,  I  give 
you  my  word  of  honour  that  I  could  receive  no  such  letter 
from  the  princess,  your  wife.  The  thing  is  monstrously 
iniquitous,  and  you  have  been  grossly  deceived  into  in 
juring  the  good  name  of  a  woman  as  innocent  as  an  angel. 
Since  the  pin  is  the  property  of  the  princess,  pray  return 


168  SANT'  ILARIO. 

it  to  her  with  my  compliments,  and  say  that  I  found  it 
on  the  bridge  of  Sant'  Angelo.  I  can  remember  the  very 
date.  It  was  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  I  was  run  over 
by  Prince  Montevarchi's  carriage.  It  was  therefore  on 
the  23d  of  September.  As  for  the  rest,  do  me  the  favour 
to  tell  me  where  my  friends  can  find  yours  in  an  hour." 

"At  my  house.  But  allow  me  to  add  that  I  do  not 
believe  a  word  of  what  you  say." 

"  Is  it  a  Roman  custom  to  insult  a  man  who  has  agreed 
to  fight  with  you?"  inquired  Gouache.  "We  are  more 
polite  in  France.  We  salute  our  adversaries  before  be 
ginning  the  combat." 

Therewith  the  Zouave  saluted  Giovanni  courteously 
and  turned  on  his  heel,  leaving  the  latter  in  an  even 
worse  humour  than  he  had  found  him.  Gouache  was  too 
much  surprised  at  the  interview  to  reason  connectedly 
about  the  causes  which  had  led  to  it,  and  accepted  the 
duel  with  Sant'  Ilario  blindly,  because  he  could  not  avoid 
it,  and  because  whatever  offence  he  himself  had  unwit 
tingly  given  he  had  in  turn  been  insulted  by  Giovanni  in 
a  way  which  left  him  no  alternative  but  that  of  a  resort 
to  arms.  His  adversary  had  admitted,  had  indeed  boasted, 
of  having  entered  Gouache's  rooms,  and  of  having  taken 
thence  the  letter  and  the  pin.  This  alone  constituted  an 
injury  for  which  reparation  was  necessary,  but  not  con 
tent  with  this,  Sant'  Ilario  had  given  him  the  lie  direct. 
Matters  were  so  confused  that  it  was  hard  to  tell  which 
was  the  injured  party;  but  since  the  prince  had  undoubt 
edly  furnished  a  pretext  more  than  sufficient,  the  soldier 
had  seized  the  opportunity  of  proposing  to  send  his  friends 
to  demand  satisfaction.  It  was  clear,  however,  that  the 
duel  could  not  take  place  at  once,  since  Gouache  was 
under  arms,  and  it  was  imperatively  necessary  that  he 
should  have  permission  to  risk  his  life  in  a  private 
quarrel  at  such  a  time.  It  was  also  certain  that  his 
superiors  would  not  allow  anything  of  the  kind  at  pres 
ent,  and  Gouache  for  his  part  was  glad  of  the  fact.  He 
preferred  to  be  killed  before  the  enemy  rather  than  in  a 
duel  for  which  there  was  no  adequate  explanation,  except 
that  a  man  who  had  been  outrageously  deceived  by  a  per 
son  or  persons  unknown  had  chosen  to  attack  him  for  a 
thing  he  had  never  done.  He  had  not  the  slightest  inten- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  169 

tion  of  avoiding  the  encounter,  but  he  preferred  to  see 
some  active  service  in  a  cause  to  which  he  was  devoted 
before  being  run  through  the  body  by  one  who  was  his 
enemy  only  by  mistake.  Giovanni's  reputation  as  a 
swordsman  made  it  probable  that  the  issue  would  be  un 
favourable  to  Gouache,  and  the  latter,  with  the  simple 
fearlessness  that  belonged  to  his  character,  meant  if  pos 
sible  to  have  a  chance  of  distinguishing  himself  before 
being  killed. 

Half  an  hour  later,  a  couple  of  officers  of  Zouaves 
called  upon  Sant'  Ilario,  and  found  his  representatives 
waiting  for  them.  Giovanni  had  had  the  good  fortune 
to  find  Count  Spicca  at  home.  That  melancholy  gentle 
man  had  been  his  second  in  an  affair  with  Ugo  del  Ferice 
nearly  three  years  earlier  and  had  subsequently  killed 
one  of  the  latter's  seconds  in  consequence  of  his  dishon 
ourable  behaviour  in  the  field.  He  had  been  absent  in 
consequence  until  a  few  weeks  before  the  present  time, 
when  matters  had  been  arranged,  and  he  had  found  him 
self  free  to  return  unmolested.  It  had  been  remarked  at 
the  club  that  something  would  happen  before  he  had  been 
in  Rome  many  days.  He  was  a  very  tall  and  cadaverous 
man,  exceedingly  prone  to  take  offence,  and  exceedingly 
skilful  in  exacting  the  precise  amount  of  blood  which  he 
considered  a  fair  return  for  an  injury.  He  had  never 
been  known  to  kill  a  man  by  accident,  but  had  rarely 
failed  to  take  his  adversary's  life  when  he  had  deter 
mined  to  do  so.  Spicca  had  brought  another  friend, 
whom  it  is  unnecessary  to  describe.  The  interview  was 
short  and  conclusive. 

The  two  officers  had  instructions  to  demand  a  serious 
duel,  and  Spicca  and  his  companion  had  been  told  to 
make  the  conditions  even  more  dangerous  if  they  could 
do  so.  On  the  other  hand,  the  officers  explained  that  as 
Eome  was  in  a  state  of  siege,  and  Garibaldi  almost  at 
the*  gates,  the  encounter  could  not  take  place  until  the 
crisis  was  past.  They  undertook  to  appear  for  Gouache 
in  case  he  chanced  to  be  shot  in  an  engagement.  Spicca, 
who  did  not  know  the  real  cause  of  the  duel,  and  was 
indeed  somewhat  surprised  to  learn  that  Giovanni  had 
quarrelled  with  a  Zouave,  made  no  attempt  to  force  an 
immediate  meeting,  but  begged  leave  to  retire  and  con- 


170  SANT'  ILARIO. 

suit  with  his  principal,  an  informality  which  was  of 
course  agreed  to  by  the  other  side.  In  five  minutes  he 
returned,  stating  that  he  accepted  the  provisions  pro 
posed,  and  that  he  should  expect  twenty-four  hours' 
notice  when  Gouache  should  be  ready.  The  four  gentle 
men  drew  up  the  necessary  "protocol,"  and  parted  on 
friendly  terms  after  a  few  minutes'  conversation,  in 
which  various  proposals  were  made  in  regard  to  the 
ground. 

Spicca  alone  remained  behind,  and  he  immediately 
went  to  Giovanni,  carrying  a  copy  of  the  protocol,  on 
which  the  ink  was  still  wet. 

"Here  it  is,"  he  said  sadly,  as  he  entered  the  room, 
holding  up  the  paper  in  his  hand.  "  These  revolutions 
are  very  annoying!  There  is  no  end  to  the  inconven 
ience  they  cause." 

"I  suppose  it  could  not  be  helped,"  answered  Gio 
vanni,  gloomily. 

"No.  I  believe  I  have  not  the  reputation  of  wasting 
time  in  these  matters.  You  must  try  and  amuse  your 
self  as  best  you  can  until  the  day  comes.  It  is  a  pity 
you  have  not  some  other  affair  in  the  meanwhile,  just  to 
make  the  time  pass  pleasantly.  It  would  keep  your 
hand  in,  too.  But  then  you  have  the  pleasures  of  antici 
pation.  " 

Giovanni  laughed  hoarsely.  Spicca  took  a  foil  from 
the  wall  and  played  with  it,  looking  along  the  thin  blade, 
then  setting  the  point  on  the  carpet  and  bending  the 
weapon  to  see  whether  it  would  spring  back  properly. 
Giovanni's  eyes  followed  his  movements,  watching  the 
slender  steel,  and  then  glancing  at  Spicca' s  long  arms, 
his  nervous  fingers  and  peculiar  grip. 

"  How  do  you  manage  to  kill  your  man  whenever  you 
choose?"  asked  Sant'  Ilario,  half  idly,  half  in  curiosity. 

"It  is  perfectly  simple,  at  least  with  foils,"  replied 
the  other,  making  passes  in  the  air.  "  Now,  if  you  will 
take  a  foil,  I  will  promise  to  run  you  through  any  part 
of  your  body  within  three  minutes.  You  may  make  a 
chalked  mark  on  the  precise  spot.  If  I  miss  by  a  hair's- 
breadth  I  will  let  you  lunge  at  me  without  guarding. " 

"  Thank  you, "  said  Giovanni ;  "  I  do  not  care  to  be  run 
through  this  morning,  but  I  confess  I  would  like  to  know 


SANT'  ILARIO.  171 

how  you  do  it.  Could  not  you  touch  the  spot  without 
thrusting  home?" 

"  Certainly,  if  you  do  not  mind  a  scratch  on  the  shoul 
der  or  the  arm.  I  will  try  and  not  draw  blood.  Come 
on  —  so  —  in  guard  —  wait  a  minute!  Where  will  you 
be  hit?  That  is  rather  important." 

Giovanni,  who  was  in  a  desperate  humour  and  cared 
little  what  he  did,  rather  relished  the  idea  of  a  bout 
which  savoured  of  reality.  There  was  a  billiard-table 
in  the  adjoining  room,  and  he  fetched  a  piece  of  chalk 
at  once. 

"Here,"  said  he,  making  a  small  white  spot  upon  his 
coat  on  the  outside  of  his  right  shoulder. 

"Very  well,"  observed  Spicca.  "Now,  do  not  rush 
in  or  I  may  hurt  you." 

"Am  I  to  thrust,  too?"  asked  Giovanni. 

"If  you  like.     You  cannot  touch  me  if  you  do." 

"We  shall  see,"  answered  Sant'  Ilario,  nettled  at 
Spicca's  poor  opinion  of  his  skill.  "In  guard!  " 

They  fell  into  position  and  began  play.  Giovanni 
immediately  tried  his  special  method  of  disarming  his 
adversary,  which  he  had  scarcely  ever  known  to  fail. 
He  forgot,  however,  that  Spicca  had  seen  him  practise 
this  piece  of  strategy  with  success  upon  Del  Ferice.  The 
melancholy  duellist  had  spent  weeks  in  studying  the 
trick,  and  had  completely  mastered  it.  To  Giovanni's 
surprise  the  Count's  hand  turned  as  easily  as  a  ball  in  a 
socket,  avoiding  the  pressure,  while  his  point  scarcely 
deviated  from  the  straight  line.  Giovanni,  angry  at  his 
failure,  made  a  quick  feint  and  a  thrust,  lunging  to  his 
full  reach.  Spicca  parried  as  easily  and  carelessly  as 
though  the  prince  had  been  a  mere  beginner,  and  allowed 
the  latter  to  recover  himself  before  he  replied.  A  full 
two  seconds  after  Sant'  Ilario  had  resumed  his  guard, 
Spicca's  foil  ran  over  his  with  a  speed  that  defied  parry 
ing,  and  he  felt  a  short  sharp  prick  in  his  right  shoulder. 
Spicca  sprang  back  and  lowered  his  weapon. 

"I  think  that  is  the  spot,"  he  said  coolly,  and  then 
came  forward  and  examined  Giovanni's  coat.  The  point 
had  penetrated  the  chalked  mark  in  the  centre,  inflict 
ing  a  wound  not  more  than  a  quarter  of  an  inch  deep  in 
the  muscle  of  the  shoulder. 


172  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

"Observe,"  he  continued,  "that  it  was  a  simple  tierce, 
without  a  feint  or  any  trick  whatever." 

On  realising  his  absolute  inferiority  to  such  a  master 
of  the  art,  Giovanni  broke  into  a  hearty  laugh  at  his  own 
discomfiture.  So  long  as  he  had  supposed  that  some 
sort  of  equality  existed  between  them  he  had  been  angry 
at  being  outdone;  but  when  he  saw  with  what  ease 
Spicca  had  accomplished  his  purpose,  his  admiration  for 
the  skill  displayed  made  him  forget  his  annoyance. 

"How  in  the  world  did  you  do  it?"  he  said.  "I 
thought  I  could  parry  a  simple  tierce,  even  though  I 
might  not  be  a  match  for  you !  " 

"Many  people  have  thought  the  same,  my  friend. 
There  are  two  or  three  elements  in  my  process,  one  of 
which  is  my  long  reach.  Another  is  the  knack  of  thrust 
ing  very  quickly,  which  is  partly  natural,  and  partly 
the  result  of  practice.  My  trick  consists  in  the  way  I 
hold  my  foil.  Look  here.  I  do  not  grasp  the  hilt  with 
all  my  fingers  as  you  do.  The  whole  art  of  fencing  lies 
in  the  use  of  the  thumb  and  forefinger.  I  lay  my  fore 
finger  straight  in  the  direction  of  the  blade.  Of  course 
I  cannot  do  it  with  a  basket  or  a  bell  hilt,  but  no  one 
ever  objects  to  common  foils.  It  is  dangerous  —  yes  — 
I  might  hurt  my  finger,  but  then,  I  am  too  quick.  You 
ask  the  advantage?  It  is  very  simple.  You  and  I  and 
every  one  are  accustomed  from  childhood  to  point  with 
the  forefinger  at  things  we  see.  The  accuracy  with 
which  we  point  is  much  more  surprising  than  you  imag 
ine.  We  instinctively  aim  the  forefinger  at  the  object 
to  a  hair's-breadth  of  exactness.  I  only  make  my  point 
follow  my  forefinger.  The  important  thing,  then,  is  to 
grasp  the  hilt  very  firmly,  and  yet  leave  the  wrist  limber. 
I  shoot  in  the  same  way  with  a  revolver,  and  pull  the 
trigger  with  my  middle  finger.  I  scarcely  ever  miss. 
You  might  amuse  yourself  by  trying  these  things  while 
you  are  waiting  for  Gouache.  They  will  make  the  time 
pass  pleasantly." 

Spicca,  whose  main  pleasure  in  life  was  in  the  use  of 
weapons,  could  not  conceive  of  any  more  thoroughly 
delightful  occupation. 

"  I  will  try  it, "  said  Giovanni,  rubbing  his  shoulder  a 
little,  for  the  scratch  irritated  him.  "  It  is  very  inter- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  173 

esting.  I  hope  that  fellow  will  not  go  and  have  himself 
killed  by  the  Garibaldians  before  I  get  a  chance  at  him." 

"You  are  absolutely  determined  to  kill  him,  then?" 
Spicca's  voice,  which  had  grown  animated  during  his 
exposition  of  his  method,  now  sank  again  to  its  habitu 
ally  melancholy  tone. 

Giovanni  only  shrugged  his  shoulders  at  the  question, 
as  though  any  answer  were  needless.  He  hung  the  foil 
he  had  used  in  its  place  on  the  wall,  and  began  to  smoke. 

"You  will  not  have  another  bout?"  inquired  the 
Count,  putting  away  his  weapon  also,  and  taking  his  hat 
to  go. 

"Thanks  —  not  to-day.  We  shall  meet  soon,  I  hope. 
I  am  very  grateful  for  your  good  offices,  Spicca.  I  would 
ask  you  to  stay  to  breakfast,  but  I  do  not  want  my  father 
to  know  of  this  affair.  He  would  suspect  something  if 
he  saw  you  here." 

"Yes,"  returned  the  other  quietly,  "people  generally 
do.  I  am  rather  like  a  public  executioner  in  that  respect. 
My  visits  often  precede  a  catastrophe.  What  would  you 
have?  I  am  a  lonely  man." 

"  You,  who  have  so  many  friends ! "  exclaimed  Gio 
vanni. 

"Bah!  It  is  time  to  be  off,"  said  Spicca,  and  shaking 
his  friend's  hand  hastily  he  left  the  room. 

Giovanni  stood  for  several  minutes  after  he  had  gone, 
wondering  with  a  vague  curiosity  what  this  man's  history 
had  been,  as  many  had  wondered  before.  There  was  a 
fatal  savour  of  death  about  Spicca  which  everybody  felt 
who  came  near  him.  He  was  dreaded,  as  one  of  the 
worst-tempered  men  and  one  of  the  most  remarkable 
swordsmen  in  Europe.  He  was  always  consulted  in 
affairs  of  honour,  and  his  intimate  acquaintance  with 
the  code,  his  austere  integrity,  and  his  vast  experience, 
made  him  invaluable  in  such  matters.  But  he  was  not 
known  to  have  any  intimate  friends  among  men  or 
women.  He  neither  gambled  nor  made  love  to  other 
men's  wives,  nor  did  any  of  those  things  which  too  easily 
lead  to  encounters  of  arms;  and  yet,  in  his  cold  and 
melancholy  way  he  was  constantly  quarrelling  and  fight 
ing  and  killing  his  man,  till  it  was  a  wonder  that  the 
police  would  tolerate  him  in  any  European  capital.  It 


174  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

was  rumoured  that  he  had  a  strange  history,  and  that  his 
life  had  been  embittered  in  his  early  youth  by  some 
tragic  circumstance,  but  no  one  could  say  what  that 
occurrence  had  been  nor  where  it  had  taken  place.  He 
felt  an  odd  sympathy  for  Giovanni,  and  his  reference  to 
his  loneliness  in  his  parting  speech  was  unique,  and  set 
his  friend  to  wondering  about  him. 

Giovanni's  mind  was  now  as  much  at  rest  as  was  pos 
sible,  under  conditions  which  obliged  him  to  postpone 
his  vengeance  for  an  indefinite  period.  He  had  passed 
a  sleepless  night  after  his  efforts  to  find  Gouache  and  had 
risen  early  in  the  morning  to  be  sure  of  catching  him. 
He  had  not  seen  his  father  since  their  interview  of  the 
previous  evening,  and  had  hoped  not  to  see  him  again 
till  the  moment  of  leaving  for  Saracinesca.  The  old  man 
had  understood  him,  and  that  was  all  that  was  necessary 
for  the  present.  He  suspected  that  his  father  would  not 
seek  an  interview  any  more  than  he  did  himself.  But 
an  obstacle  had  presented  itself  in  the  way  of  his  depart 
ure  which  he  had  not  expected,  and  which  irritated  him 
beyond  measure.  Corona  was  ill.  He  did  not  know 
whether  her  ailment  were  serious  or  not,  but  it  was 
evident  that  he  could  not  force  her  to  leave  her  bed  and 
accompany  him  to  the  country,  so  long  as  the  doctor 
declared  that  she  could  not  be  moved.  When  Spicca 
was  gone,  he  did  not  know  what  to  do  with  himself.  He 
would  not  go  and  see  his  wife,  for  any  meeting  must  be 
most  unpleasant.  He  had  nerved  himself  to  conduct 
her  to  the  mountains,  and  had  expected  that  the  long 
drive  would  be  passed  in  a  disagreeable  silence.  So  long 
as  Corona  was  well  and  strong,  he  could  have  succeeded 
well  enough  in  treating  her  as  he  believed  that  she 
deserved.  Now  that  she  was  ill,  he  felt  how  impossible 
it  would  be  for  him  to  take  good  care  of  her  without 
seeming  to  relent,  even  if  he  did  not  relent  in  earnest; 
and  on  the  other  hand  his  really  noble  nature  would  have 
prevented  him  from  being  harsh  in  his  manner  to  her 
while  she  was  suffering. 

Until  he  had  been  convinced  that  a  duel  with  Gouache 
was  for  the  present  impossible,  his  anger  had  supported 
him,  and  had  made  the  time  pass  quickly  throughout  the 
sleepless  night  and  through  the  events  of  the  morning. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  175 

Now  that  lie  was  alone,  with  nothing  to  do  but  to  meditate 
upon  the  situation,  his  savage  humour  forsook  him  and 
the  magnitude  of  his  misfortune  oppressed  him  and  nearly 
drove  him  mad.  He  went  over  the  whole  train  of  evi 
dence  again  and  again,  and  as  often  as  he  reviewed  what 
had  occurred,  his  conviction  grew  deeper  and  stronger, 
and  he  acknowledged  that  he  had  been  deceived  as  man 
was  never  deceived  before.  He  realised  the  boundless 
faith  he  had  given  to  this  woman  who  had  betrayed  him ; 
he  recollected  the  many  proofs  she  had  given  him  of  her 
love ;  he  drew  upon  the  store  of  his  past  happiness  and 
tortured  himself  with  visions  of  what  could  never  be 
again;  he  called  up  in  fancy  Corona's  face  when  he  had 
led  her  to  the  altar  and  the  very  look  in  her  eyes  was 
again  upon  him ;  he  remembered  that  day  more  than  two 
years  ago  when,  upon  the  highest  tower  of  Saracinesca, 
he  had  asked  her  to  be  his  wife,  and  he  knew  not  whether 
he  desired  to  burn  the  memory  of  that  first  embrace  from 
his  heart,  or  to  dwell  upon  the  sweet  recollection  of  that 
moment  and  suffer  the  wound  of  to-day  to  rankle  more 
hotly  by  the  horror  of  the  comparison.  When  he  thought 
of  what  she  had  been,  it  seemed  impossible  that  she 
could  have  fallen ;  when  he  saw  what  she  had  become  he 
could  not  believe  that  she  had  ever  been  innocent.  A 
baser  man  than  Giovanni  would  have  suffered  more  in  his 
personal  vanity,  seeing  that  his  idol  had  been  degraded 
for  a  mere  soldier  of  fortune  —  or  for  a  clever  artist  — 
whichever  Gouache  called  himself,  and  such  a  husband 
would  have  forgiven  her  more  easily  had  she  forsaken 
him  for  one  of  his  own  standing  and  rank.  But  Giovanni 
was  far  above  and  beyond  the  thought  of  comparing  his 
enemy  with  himself.  He  was  wounded  in  what  he  had 
held  most  sacred,  which  was  his  heart,  and  in  what  had 
grown  to  be  the  mainspring  of  his  existence,  his  trust  in 
the  woman  he  loved.  Those  who  readily  believe  are 
little  troubled  if  one  of  their  many  little  faiths  be  shaken ; 
but  men  who  believe  in  a  few  things,  with  the  whole 
strength  of  their  being,  are  hurt  mortally  when  that  on 
which  they  build  their  loyalty  is  shattered  and  over 
turned. 

Giovanni  was  a  just  man,  and  was  rarely  carried  away 
by  appearances;  least  of  all  could  he  have  shown  any 


176  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

such  weakness  when  the  yielding  to  it  involved  the 
destruction  of  all  that  he  cared  for  in  life.  But  the 
evidence  was  overwhelming,  and  no  man  could  be  blamed 
for  accepting  it.  There  was  no  link  wanting  in  the 
chain,  and  the  denials  made  by  Corona  and  Anastase 
could  not  have  influenced  any  man  in  his  senses.  What 
could  a  woman  do  but  deny  all?  What  was  there  for 
Gouache  but  to  swear  that  the  accusation  was  untrue? 
Would  not  any  other  man  or  woman  have  done  as  much? 
There  was  no  denying  it.  The  only  person  who  remained 
unquestioned  was  Faustina  Montevarchi.  Either  she 
was  the  innocent  girl  she  appeared  to  be  or  not.  If  she 
were,  how  could  Giovanni  explain  to  her  that  she  had 
been  duped,  and  made  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of 
Gouache  and  Corona?  She  would  not  know  what  he 
meant.  Even  if  she  admitted  that  she  loved  Gouache, 
was  it  not  clear  that  he  had  deceived  her  too,  for  the  sake 
of  making  an  accomplice  of  one  who  was  constantly  with 
Corona?  Her  love  for  the  soldier  could  not  explain  the 
things  that  had  passed  between  Anastase  and  Giovanni's 
wife,  which  Giovanni  had  seen  with  his  own  eyes.  It 
could  not  account  for  the  whisperings,  the  furtive  meet 
ing  and  tender  words  of  which  he  had  been  a  witness  in 
his  own  house.  It  could  not  do  away  with  the  letter 
and  the  pin.  But  if  Faustina  were  not  innocent  of 
assisting  the  two,  she  would  deny  everything,  even  as 
they  had  done. 

As  he  thought  of  all  these  matters  and  followed  the 
cruelly  logical  train  of  reasoning  forced  upon  him  by  the 
facts,  a  great  darkness  descended  upon  Giovanni's  heart, 
and  he  knew  that  his  happiness  was  gone  from  him  for 
ever.  Henceforth  nothing  remained  but  to  watch  his 
wife  jealously,  and  suffer  his  ills  with  the  best  heart  he 
could.  The  very  fact  that  he  loved  her  still,  with  a 
passion  that  defied  all  things,  added  a  terrible  bitterness 
to  what  he  had  to  bear,  for  it  made  him  despise  himself 
as  none  would  have  dared  to  despise  him. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  177 


CHAPTER  XII. 

As  Giovanni  sat  in  solitude  in  his  room  he  was  not 
aware  that  his  father  had  received  a  visit  from  no  less 
a  personage  than  Prince  Montevarchi.  The  latter  found 
Saracinesca  very  much  preoccupied,  and  in  no  mood  for 
conversation,  and  consequently  did  not  stay  very  long. 
When  he  went  away,  however,  he  carried  under  his  arm 
a  bundle  of  deeds  and  documents  which  he  had  long 
desired  to  see  and  in  the  perusal  of  which  he  promised 
himself  to  spend  a  very  interesting  day.  He  had  come 
with  the  avowed  object  of  getting  them,  and  he  neither 
anticipated  nor  met  with  any  difficulty  in  obtaining  what 
he  wanted.  He  spoke  of  his  daughter's  approaching 
marriage  with  San  Giacinto,  and  after  expressing  his 
satisfaction  at  the  alliance  with  the  Saracinesca,  remarked 
that  his  son-in-law  had  told  him  the  story  of  the  ancient 
deed,  and  begged  permission  to  see  it  for  himself.  The 
request  was  natural,  and  Saracinesca  was  not  suspicious 
at  any  time ;  at  present,  he  was  too  much  occupied  with 
his  own  most  unpleasant  reflections  to  attach  any  impor 
tance  to  the  incident.  Montevarchi  thought  there  was 
something  wrong  with  his  friend,  but  inasmuch  as  he 
had  received  the  papers,  he  asked  no  questions  and  pres 
ently  departed  with  them,  hastening  homewards  in  order 
to  lose  no  time  in  satisfying  his  curiosity. 

Two  hours  later  he  was  still  sitting  in  his  dismal  study 
with  the  manuscripts  before  him.  He  had  ascertained 
what  he  wanted  to  know,  namely,  that  the  papers  really 
existed  and  were  drawn  up  in  a  legal  form.  He  had  hoped 
to  find  a  rambling  agreement,  made  out  principally  by 
the  parties  concerned,  and  copied  with  some  improve 
ments  by  the  family  notary  of  the  time,  for  he  had  made 
up  his  mind  that  if  any  flaw  could  be  discovered  in 
the  deed  San  Giacinto  should  become  Prince  Saracin 
esca,  and  should  have  possession  of  all  the  immense 
wealth  that  belonged  to  the  family.  San  Giacinto  was 
the  heir  in  the  direct  line,  and  although  his  great-grand 
father  had  relinquished  his  birthright  in  the  firm  ex 
pectation  of  having  no  children,  the  existence  of  his 

H 


178  SANT*  ILARIO. 

descendants  might  greatly  modify  the  provisions  of  the 
agreement. 

Montevarchi's  face  fell  when  he  had  finished  decipher 
ing  the  principal  document.  The  provisions  and  condi 
tions  were  short  and  concise,  and  were  contained  upon 
one  large  sheet  of  parchment,  signed,  witnessed  and 
bearing  the  official  seal  and  signature  which  proved  that 
it  had  been  ratified. 

It  was  set  forth  therein  that  Don  Leone  Saracinesca,  be 
ing  the  eldest  son  of  Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  deceased, 
Prince  of  Saracinesca,  of  Sant'  Ilario  and  of  Torleone, 
Duke  of  Barda,  and  possessor  of  many  other  titles, 
Grandee  of  Spain  of  the  first  class  and  Count  of  the  Holy 
Eoman  Empire,  did  of  his  own  free  will,  by  his  own 
motion  and  will,  make  over  and  convey  to,  and  bestow 
upon,  Don  Orsino  Saracinesca,  his  younger  and  only 
brother,  the  principalities  of  Saracinesca  —  here  followed 
a  complete  list  of  the  various  titles  and  estates  —  includ 
ing  the  titles,  revenues,  seigneurial  rights,  appanages, 
holdings,  powers  and  sovereignty  attached  to  and  belong 
ing  to  each  and  every  one,  to  him,  the  aforesaid  Don 
Orsino  Saracinesca  and  to  the  heirs  of  his  body  in  the 
male  line  direct  for  ever. 

Here  there  was  a  stop,  and  the  manuscript  began  again 
at  the  top  of  the  other  side  of  the  sheet.  The  next  clause 
contained  the  solitary  provision  to  the  effect  that  Don 
Leone  reserved  to  himself  the  estate  and  title  of  San 
Giacinto  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples,  which  at  his  death, 
he  having  no  children,  should  revert  to  the  aforesaid 
Don  Orsino  Saracinesca  and  his  heirs  for  ever.  It  was 
further  stated  that  the  agreement  was  wholly  of  a  friendly 
character,  and  that  Don  Leone  bound  himself  to  take  no 
steps  whatever  to  reinstate  himself  in  the  titles  and 
possessions  which,  of  his  own  free  will,  he  relinquished, 
the  said  agreement  being,  in  the  opinion  of  both  parties, 
for  the  advantage  of  the  whole  house  of  Saracinesca. 

"He  bound  himself,  not  his  descendants,"  remarked 
Montevarchi  at  last,  as  he  again  bent  his  head  over  the 
document  and  examined  the  last  clause.  "And  he  says 
'having  no  children '  —  in  Latin  the  words  may  mean  in 
case  he  had  none,  being  in  the  ablative  absolute.  Hav 
ing  no  children,  to  Orsino  and  his  heirs  for  ever  —  but 


SANT'  ILARIO.  179 

since  lie  had  a  son,  the  case  is  altered.  Ay,  but  that 
clause  in  the  first  part  says  to  Orsino  and  his  heirs  for 
ever,  and  says  nothing  about  Leone  having  no  children. 
It  is  more  absolute  than  the  ablative.  That  is  bad." 

For  a  long  time  he  pondered  over  the  writing.  The 
remaining  documents  were  merely  transfers  of  the  indi 
vidual  estates,  in  each  of  which  it  was  briefly  stated  that 
the  property  in  question  was  conveyed  in  accordance 
with  the  conditions  of  the  main  deed.  There  was  no 
difficulty  there.  The  Saracinesca  inheritance  depended 
solely  on  the  existence  of  this  one  piece  of  parchment, 
and  of  the  copy  or  registration  of  it  in  the  government 
offices.  Monte varchi  glanced  at  the  candle  that  stood 
before  him  in  a  battered  brass  candlestick,  and  his  old 
heart  beat  a  little  faster  than  usual.  To  burn  the  sheet 
of  parchment,  and  then  deny  on  oath  that  he  had  ever 
seen  it —  it  was  very  simple.  Saracinesca  would  find  it 
hard  to  prove  the  existence  of  the  thing.  Montevarchi 
hesitated,  and  then  laughed  at  himself  for  his  folly.  It 
would  be  necessary  first  to  ascertain  what  there  was  at 
the  Chancery  office,  otherwise  he  would  be  ruining  him 
self  for  nothing.  That  was  certainly  the  most  important 
step  at  present.  He  pondered  over  the  matter  for  some 
time  and  then  rose  from  his  chair. 

As  he  stood  before  the  table  he  glanced  once  more  at 
the  sheet.  As  though  the  greater  distance  made  it  more 
clear  to  his  old  sight,  he  noticed  that  there  was  a  blank 
space,  capable  of  containing  three  lines  of  writing  like 
what  was  above,  while  still  leaving  a  reasonable  margin 
at  the  bottom  of  the  page.  As  the  second  clause  was 
the  shorter,  the  scribe  had  doubtless  thought  it  better  to 
begin  afresh  on  the  other  side. 

Montevarchi  sat  down  again,  and  took  a  large  sheet  of 
paper  and  a  pen.  He  rapidly  copied  the  first  clause  to 
the  end,  but  after  the  words  "  in  the  male  line  direct  for 
ever  "  his  pen  still  ran  on.  The  deed  then  read  as  fol 
lows  :  — 

"...  In  the  male  line  direct  for  ever,  provided 
that  the  aforesaid  Don  Leone  Saracinesca  shall  have  no 
son  born  to  him  in  wedlock,  in  which  case,  and  if  such 
a  son  be  born,  this  present  deed  is  wholly  null,  void  and 
ineffectual. " 


180  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Monte varchi  did  not  stop  here.  He  carefully  copied 
the  remainder  as  it  stood,  to  the  last  word.  Then  he 
put  away  the  original  and  read  what  he  had  written  very 
slowly  and  carefully.  With  the  addition  it  was  perfectly 
clear  that  San  Giacinto  must  be  considered  to  be  the 
lawful  and  only  Prince  Saracinesca. 

"  How  well  those  few  words  would  look  at  the  bottom 
of  the  page!"  exclaimed  the  old  man  half  aloud.  He 
sat  still  and  gloated  in  imagination  over  the  immense 
wealth  which  would  thus  be  brought  into  his  family. 

"  They  shall  be  there  —  they  must  be  there !  "  he  mut 
tered  at  last.  "  Millions !  millions !  After  all  it  is  only 
common  justice.  The  old  reprobate  would  never  have 
disinherited  his  son  if  he  had  expected  to  have  one." 

His  long  thin  fingers  crooked  themselves  and  scratched 
the  shabby  green  baize  that  covered  the  table,  as  though 
heaping  together  little  piles  of  money,  and  then  hiding 
them  under  the  palm  of  his  hand. 

"Even  if  there  is  a  copy,"  he  said  again  under  his 
breath,  "  the  little  work  will  look  as  prettily  upon  it  as 
on  this  —  if  only  the  sheets  are  the  same  size  and  there 
is  the  same  space,"  he  added,  his  face  falling  again  at 
the  disagreeable  reflection  that  the  duplicate  might  differ 
in  some  respect  from  the  original. 

The  plan  was  simple  enough  in  appearance,  and  pro 
vided  that  the  handwriting  could  be  successfully  forged, 
there  was  no  reason  why  it  should  not  succeed.  The 
man  who  could  do  it,  if  he  would,  was  in  the  house  at 
that  moment,  and  Montevarchi  knew  it.  Arnoldo  Mes- 
chini,  the  shrivelled  little  secretary  and  librarian,  who 
had  a  profound  knowledge  of  the  law  and  spent  his  days 
as  well  as  most  of  his  nights  in  poring  over  crabbed 
manuscripts,  was  the  very  person  for  such  a  piece  of 
work.  He  understood  the  smallest  variations  in  hand 
writing  which  belonged  to  different  periods,  and  the 
minutest  details  of  old-fashioned  penmanship  were  as 
familiar  to  him  as  the  common  alphabet.  But  would  he 
do  it?  Would  he  undertake  the  responsibility  of  a 
forgery  of  which  the  success  would  produce  such  tre 
mendous  responsibilities,  of  which  the  failure  would 
involve  such  awful  disgrace?  Montevarchi  had  reasons 
of  his  own  for  believing  that  Arnoldo  Meschini  would  do 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  181 

anything  he  was  ordered  to  do,  and  would  moreover  keep 
the  secret  faithfully.  Indeed,  as  far  as  discretion  was 
concerned,  he  would,  in  case  of  exposure,  have  to  bear 
the  penalty.  Montevarchi  would  arrange  that.  If  dis 
covered  it  would  be  easy  for  him  to  pretend  that  being 
unable  to  read  the  manuscript  he  had  employed  his 
secretary  to  do  so,  and  that  the  latter,  in  the  hope  of 
reward,  had  gratuitously  imposed  upon  the  prince  and 
the  courts  of  law  before  whom  the  case  would  be  tried. 

One  thing  was  necessary.  San  Giacinto  must  never 
see  the  documents  until  they  were  produced  as  evidence. 
In  the  first  place  it  was  important  that  he,  who  was  the 
person  nearest  concerned,  should  be  in  reality  perfectly 
innocent,  and  should  be  himself  as  much  deceived  as  any 
one.  Nothing  impresses  judges  like  real  and  unaffected 
innocence.  Secondly,  if  he  were  consulted,  it  was 
impossible  to  say  what  view  he  might  take  of  the  mat 
ter.  Montevarchi  suspected  him  of  possessing  some  of 
the  hereditary  boldness  of  the  Saracinesca.  He  might 
refuse  to  be  a  party  in  a  deception,  even  though  he  him 
self  was  to  benefit  by  it,  a  consideration  which  chilled 
the  old  man's  blood  and  determined  him  at  once  to  con 
fide  the  secret  to  no  one  but  Arnoldo  Meschini,  who  was 
completely  in  his  power. 

The  early  history  of  this  remarkable  individual  was 
uncertain.  He  had  received  an  excellent  education  and 
it  is  no  exaggeration  to  call  him  learned,  for  he  possessed 
a  surprising  knowledge  of  ancient  manuscripts  and  a 
great  experience  in  everything  connected  with  this  branch 
of  archaeology.  It  was  generally  believed  that  he  had 
been  bred  to  enter  the  church,  but  he  himself  never 
admitted  that  he  had  been  anything  more  than  a  scholar 
in  a  religious  seminary.  He  had  subsequently  studied 
law  and  had  practised  for  some  time,  when  he  had  sud 
denly  abandoned  his  profession  in  order  to  accept  the 
ill-paid  post  of  librarian  and  secretary  to  the  father  of 
the  present  Prince  Montevarchi.  Probably  his  love  of 
mediaeval  lore  had  got  the  better  of  his  desire  for  money, 
and  during  the  five  and  twenty  years  he  had  spent  in  the 
palace  he  had  never  been  heard  to  complain  of  his  condi 
tion.  He  lived  in  a  small  chamber  in  the  attic  and 
passed  his  days  in  the  library,  winter  and  summer  alike, 


182  SANT'  ILARIO. 

perpetually  poring  over  the  manuscripts  and  making 
endless  extracts  in  his  odd,  old-fashioned  handwriting. 
The  result  of  his  labours  was  never  published,  and  at 
first  sight  it  would  have  been  hard  to  account  for  his 
enormous  industry  and  for  the  evident  satisfaction  he  de 
rived  from  his  work.  The  nature  of  the  man,  however, 
was  peculiar,  and  his  occupation  was  undoubtedly  conge 
nial  to  him,  and  far  more  profitable  than  it  appeared  to  be. 

Arnoldo  Meschini  was  a  forger.  He  was  one  of  that 
band  of  manufacturers  of  antiquities  who  have  played 
such  a  part  in  the  dealings  of  foreign  collectors  during 
the  last  century,  and  whose  occupation,  though  slow  and 
laborious,  occasionally  produces  immense  profits.  He  had 
not  given  up  his  calling  with  the  deliberate  intention  of 
resorting  to  this  method  of  earning  a  subsistence,  but 
had  drifted  into  his  evil  practices  by  degrees.  In  the 
first  instance  he  had  quitted  the  bar  in  consequence  of 
having  been  connected  with  a  scandalous  case  of  extor 
tion  and  blackmailing,  in  which  he  had  been  suspected 
of  constructing  forged  documents  for  his  client,  though 
the  crime  had  not  been  proved  against  him.  His  repu 
tation,  however,  had  been  ruined,  and  he  had  been  forced 
to  seek  his  bread  elsewhere.  It  chanced  that  the  former 
librarian  of  the  Monte varchi  died  at  that  time  and  that 
the  prince  was  in  search  of  a  learned  man  ready  to  give 
his  services  for  a  stipend  about  equal  to  the  wages  of  a 
footman.  Meschini  presented  himself  and  got  the  place. 
The  old  prince  was  delighted  with  him  and  agreed  to 
forget  the  aforesaid  disgrace  he  had  incurred,  in  consid 
eration  of  his  exceptional  qualities.  He  set  himself 
systematically  to  study  the  contents  of  the  ancient 
library,  with  the  intention  of  publishing  the  contents  of 
the  more  precious  manuscripts,  and  for  two  or  three 
years  he  pursued  his  object  with  this  laudable  purpose, 
and  with  the  full  consent  of  his  employer. 

One  day  a  foreign  newspaper  fell  into  his  hands  con 
taining  an  account  of  a  recent  sale  in  which  sundry  old 
manuscripts  had  brought  large  prices.  A  new  idea 
crossed  his  mind,  and  the  prospect  of  unexpected  wealth 
unfolded  itself  to  his  imagination.  For  several  months 
he  studied  even  more  industriously  than  before,  until, 
having  made  up  his  mind,  he  began  to  attempt  the 


SANT'  ILARIO.  183 

reproduction  of  a  certain  valuable  writing  dating  from  the 
fourteenth  century.  He  worked  in  his  own  room  during 
the  evening  and  allowed  no  one  to  see  what  he  was 
doing,  for  although  it  was  rarely  that  the  old  prince 
honoured  the  library  with  a  visit,  yet  Meschini  was 
inclined  to  run  no  risks,  and  proceeded  in  his  task  with 
the  utmost  secrecy. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  care  he  showed  in  the  prep 
aration  and  use  of  his  materials.  One  of  his  few 
acquaintances  was  a  starving,  but  clever  chemist,  who 
kept  a  dingy  shop  in  the  neighbourhood  of  the  Ponte 
Quattro  Capi.  To  this  poor  man  he  applied  in  order  to 
obtain  a  knowledge  of  the  ink  used  in  the  old  writings. 
He  professed  himself  anxious  to  get  all  possible  details 
on  the  subject  for  a  work  he  was  preparing  upon  mediae 
val  calligraphy,  and  his  friend  soon  set  his  mind  at  rest 
by  informing  him  that  if  the  ink  contained  any  metallic 
parts  he  would  easily  detect  them,  but  that  if  it  was 
composed  of  animal. and  vegetable  matter  it  would  be 
almost  impossible  to  give  a  satisfactory  analysis.  At  the 
end  of  a  few  days  Meschini  was  in  possession  of  a  recipe 
for  concocting  what  he  wanted,  and  after  numerous 
experiments,  in  the  course  of  which  he  himself  acquired 
great  practical  knowledge  of  the  subject,  he  succeeded 
in  producing  an  ink  apparently  in  all  respects  similar  to 
that  used  by  the  scribe  whose  work  he  proposed  to  copy. 
He  had  meanwhile  busied  himself  with  the  preparation 
of  parchment,  which  is  by  no  means  an  easy  matter  when 
it  is  necessary  to  give  it  the  colour  and  consistency  of 
very  ancient  skin.  He  learned  that  the  ligneous  acids 
contained  in  the  smoke  of  wood  could  be  easily  detected, 
and  it  was  only  through  the  assistance  of  the  chemist 
that  he  finally  hit  upon  the  method  of  staining  the  sheets 
with  a  thin  broth  of  untanned  leather,  of  which  the  analy 
sis  would  give  a  result  closely  approaching  that  of  the 
parchment  itself.  Moreover,  he  made  all  sorts  of  trials 
of  quill  pens,  until  he  had  found  a  method  of  cutting 
which  produced  the  exact  thickness  of  stroke  required, 
and  during  the  whole  time  he  exercised  himself  in  copy 
ing  and  recopying  many  pages  of  the  manuscript  upon 
common  paper,  in  order  to  familiarise  himself  with  the 
method  of  forming  the  letters, 


184  SANT'  ILARIO. 

It  was  nearly  two  years  before  he  felt  himself  able  to 
begin  his  first  imitation,  but  the  time  and  study  he  had 
expended  were  not  lost,  and  the  result  surpassed  his  expec 
tations.  So  ingeniously  perfect  was  the  facsimile  when 
finished  that  Meschini  himself  would  have  found  it  hard 
to  swear  to  the  identity  of  the  original  if  he  had  not  been 
allowed  to  see  either  of  the  two  for  some  time.  The 
minutest  stains  were  reproduced  with  scrupulous  fidelity. 
The  slightest  erasure  was  copied  minutely.  He  examined 
every  sheet  to  ascertain  exactly  how  it  had  been  worn  by 
the  fingers  rubbing  on  the  corners  and  spent  days  in 
turning  a  page  thousands  of  times,  till  the  oft-repeated 
touch  of  his  thumb  had  deepened  the  colour  to  the  exact 
tint. 

When  the  work  was  finished  he  hesitated.  It  seemed 
to  him  very  perfect,  but  he  feared  lest  he  should  be 
deceiving  himself  from  having  seen  the  thing  daily  for 
so  many  months.  He  took  his  copy  one  day  to  a  famous 
collector,  and  submitted  it  to  him  for  examination,  asking 
at  the  same  time  what  it  was  worth.  The  specialist 
spent  several  hours  in  examining  the  writing,  and  pro 
nounced  it  very  valuable,  naming  a  large  sum,  while 
admitting  that  he  was  unable  to  buy  it  himself. 

Arnoldo  Meschini  took  his  work  home  with  him,  and 
spent  a  day  in  considering  what  he  should  do.  Then  he 
deliberately  placed  the  facsimile  in  his  employer's  li 
brary,  and  sold  the  original  to  a  learned  man  who  was 
collecting  for  a  great  public  institution  in  a  foreign 
country.  His  train  of  reasoning  was  simple,  for  he  said 
to  himself  that  the  forgery  was  less  likely  to  be  detected 
in  the  shelves  of  the  Montevarchi's  palace  than  if  put 
into  the  hands  of  a  body  of  famous  scientists  who  natur 
ally  distrusted  what  was  brought  to  them.  Collectors  do 
not  ask  questions  as  to  whence  a  valuable  thing  has  been 
taken;  they  only  examine  whether  it  be  genuine  and 
worth  the  money. 

Emboldened  by  his  success,  the  forger  had  continued 
to  manufacture  facsimiles  and  sell  originals  for  nearly 
twenty  years,  during  which  he  succeeded  in  producing 
nearly  as  many  copies,  and  realised  a  sum  which  to  him 
appeared  enormous  and  which  was  certainly  not  to  be 
despised  by  any  one.  Some  of  the  works  he  sold  were 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  185 

published  and  annotated  by  great  scholars,  some  were 
jealously  guarded  in  the  libraries  of  rich  amateurs,  who 
treasured  them  with  all  the  selfish  vigilance  of  the 
bibliomaniac.  In  the  meanwhile  Meschini' s  learning 
and  skill  constantly  increased,  till  he  possessed  an  almost 
diabolical  skill  in  the  art  of  imitating  ancient  writings, 
and  a  familiarity  with  the  subject  which  amazed  the  men 
of  learning  who  occasionally  obtained  permission  to  enter 
the  library  and  study  there.  Upon  these,  too,  Meschini 
now  and  then  experimented  with  his  forgeries,  not  one 
of  which  was  ever  detected. 

Prince  Montevarchi  saw  in  his  librarian  only  a  poor 
wretch  whose  passion  for  ancient  literature  seemed  to 
dominate  his  life  and  whose  untiring  industry  had  made 
him  master  of  the  very  secret  necessary  in  the  present 
instance.  He  knew  that  such  things  as  he  contemplated 
had  been  done  before  and  he  supposed  that  they  had  been 
done  by  just  such  men  as  Arnoldo  Meschini.  He  knew 
the  history  of  the  man's  early  disgrace  and  calculated 
wisely  enough  that  the  fear  of  losing  his  situation  on  the 
one  hand,  and  the  hope  of  a  large  reward  on  the  other, 
would  induce  him  to  undertake  the  job.  To  all  appear 
ances  he  was  as  poor  as  when  he  had  entered  the  service 
of  the  prince's  father  five  and  twenty  years  earlier.  The 
promise  of  a  few  hundred  scudi,  thought  Montevarchi, 
would  have  immense  weight  with  such  a  man.  In  his 
eagerness  to  accomplish  his  purpose,  the  nobleman  never 
suspected  that  the  offer  would  be  refused  by  a  fellow 
who  had  narrowly  escaped  being  convicted  of  forgery  in 
his  youth,  and  whose  poverty  was  a  matter  concerning 
which  no  doubt  could  exist. 

Montevarchi  scarcely  hesitated  before  going  to  the 
library.  If  he  paused  at  all,  it  was  more  to  consider  the 
words  he  intended  to  use  than  to  weigh  in  his  mind 
the  propriety  of  using  them.  The  library  was  a  vast  old 
hall,  surrounded  on  all  sides,  and  nearly  to  the  ceiling, 
with  carved  bookcases  of  walnut  blackened  with  age  to  the 
colour  of  old  mahogany.  There  were  a  number  of  mas 
sive  tables  in  the  room,  upon  which  the  light  fell  agreeably 
from  high  clerestory  windows  at  each  end  of  the  apart 
ment.  Meschini  himself  was  shuffling  along  in  a  pair  of 
ancient  leather  slippers  with  a  large  volume  under  his 


186  SANT'  ILARIO. 

arm,  clad  in  very  threadbare  black  clothes  and  wearing 
a  dingy  skullcap  on  his  head.  He  was  a  man  somewhat 
under  the  middle  size,  badly  made,  though  possessing 
considerable  physical  strength.  His  complexion  was  of 
a  muddy  yellow,  disagreeable  to  see,  but  his  features 
rendered  him  interesting  if  not  sympathetic.  The  brow 
was  heavy  and  the  gray  eyebrows  irregular  and  bushy, 
but  his  gray  eyes  were  singularly  clear  and  bright,  be 
traying  a  hidden  vitality  which  would  not  have  been  sus 
pected  from  the  whole  impression  he  made.  A  high 
forehead,  very  prominent  in  the  upper  and  middle  part, 
contracted  below,  so  that  there  was  very  little  breadth  at 
the  temples,  but  considerable  expanse  above.  The  eyes 
were  near  together  and  separated  by  the  knifelike  bridge 
of  the  nose,  the  latter  descending  in  a  tine  curve  of  won 
derfully  delicate  outline.  The  chin  was  pointed,  and  the 
compressed  mouth  showed  little  or  nothing  of  the  lips. 
On  each  side  of  his  head  the  coarsely-shaped  and  prom 
inent  ears  contrasted  disagreeably  with  the  fine  keenness 
of  the  face.  He  stooped  a  little  from  the  neck,  and  his 
shoulders  sloped  in  a  way  that  made  them  look  narrower 
than  they  really  were. 

As  the  prince  closed  the  door  behind  him  and  advanced, 
Meschini  lifted  his  cap  a  little  and  laid  down  the  book  he 
was  carrying,  wondering  inwardly  what  had  brought  his 
employer  to  see  him  at  that  hour  of  the  morning. 

"Sit  down,"  said  Montevarchi,  with  more  than  usual 
affability,  and  setting  the  example  by  seating  himself 
upon  one  of  the  high-backed  chairs  which  were  ranged 
along  the  tables.  "  Sit  down,  Meschini,  and  let  us  have 
a  little  conversation." 

"  Willingly,  Signer  Principe,"  returned  the  librarian, 
obeying  the  command  and  placing  himself  opposite  to 
the  prince. 

"I  have  been  thinking  about  you  this  morning,"  con 
tinued  the  latter.  "  You  have  been  with  us  a  very  long 
time.  Let  me  see.  How  many  years?  Eighteen? 
Twenty?" 

"Twenty-five  years,  Excellency.  It  is  a  long  time, 
indeed!" 

"Twenty-five  years!  Dear  me!  How  the  thought 
takes  me  back  to  my  poor  father !  Heaven  bless  him,  he 


SANT'  ILARIO.  187 

was  a  good  man.  But,  as  I  was  saying,  Meschini,  you 
have  been  with  us  many  years,  and  we  have  not  done 
much  for  you.  No.  Do  not  protest !  I  know  your  modesty, 
but  one  must  be  just  before  all  things.  I  think  you  draw 
fifteen  scucli  a  month?  Yes.  I  have  a  good  memory,  you 
see.  I  occupy  myself  with  the  cares  of  my  household. 
But  you  are  not  so  young  as  you  were  once,  my  friend, 
and  your  faithful  services  deserve  to  be  rewarded.  Shall 
we  say  thirty  scudi  a  month  in  future?  To  continue  all 
your  life,  even  if  —  heaven  avert  it  —  you  should  ever 
become  disabled  from  superintending  the  library  —  yes, 
all  your  life." 

Meschini  bowed  as  he  sat  in  acknowledgment  of  so 
much  generosity,  and  assumed  a  grateful  expression 
suitable  to  the  occasion.  In  reality,  his  salary  was  of 
very  little  importance  to  him,  as  compared  with  what  he 
realised  from  his  illicit  traffic  in  manuscripts.  But,  like 
his  employer,  he  was  avaricious,  and  the  prospect  of 
three  hundred  and  sixty  scudi  a  year  was  pleasant  to 
contemplate.  He  bowed  and  smiled. 

"  I  do  not  deserve  so  much  liberality,  Signor  Principe," 
he  said.  "  My  poor  services " 

"  Very  far  from  poor,  my  dear  friend,  very  far  from 
poor,"  interrupted  Montevarchi.  "Moreover,  if  you  will 
have  confidence  in  me,  you  can  do  me  a  very  great  service 
indeed.  But  it  is  indeed  a  very  private  matter.  You  are 
a  discreet  man,  however,  and  have  few  friends.  You  are 
not  given  to  talking  idly  of  what  concerns  no  one  but 
yourself." 

"No,  Excellency,"  replied  Meschini,  laughing  inwardly 
as  he  thought  of  the  deceptions  he  had  been  practising 
with  success  during  a  quarter  of  a  century. 

"Well,  well,  this  is  a  matter  between  ourselves,  and 
one  which,  as  you  will  see,  will  bring  its  own  reward. 
For  although  it  might  not  pass  muster  in  a  court  of  law 
—  the  courts  you  know,  Meschini,  are  very  sensitive 
about  little  things "  he  looked  keenly  at  his  com 
panion,  whose  eyes  were  cast  down. 

"Foolishly  sensitive,"  echoed  the  librarian. 

"Yes.  I  may  say  that  in  the  present  instance,  al 
though  the  law  might  think  differently  of  the  matter, 
we  shall  be  doing  a  good  deed,  redressing  a  great  in  jus- 


188  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

tice,  restoring  to  the  fatherless  his  birthright,  in  a  word 
fulfilling  the  will  of  Heaven,  while  perhaps  paying  little 
attention  to  the  laws  of  man.  Man,  my  friend,  is  often 
very  unjust  in  his  wisdom." 

"  Very.  I  can  only  applaud  your  Excellency's  senti 
ments,  which  do  justice  to  a  man  of  heart." 

"No,  no,  I  want  no  praise,"  replied  the  prince  in  a 
tone  of  deprecation.  "What  I  need  in  order  to  accom 
plish  this  good  action  is  your  assistance  and  friendly 
help.  To  whom  should  I  turn,  but  to  the  old  and  confi 
dential  friend  of  the  family?  To  a  man  whose  knowledge 
of  the  matter  on  hand  is  only  equalled  by  his  fidelity  to 
those  who  have  so  long  employed  him?" 

"  You  are  very  good,  Signor  Principe.  I  will  do  my 
best  to  serve  you,  as  I  have  served  you  and  his  departed 
Excellency,  the  Signor  Principe,  your  father." 

"  Very  well,  Meschini.  Now  I  need  only  repeat  that 
the  reward  for  your  services  will  be  great,  as  I  trust  that 
hereafter  your  recompense  may  be  adequate  for  having 
had  a  share  in  so  good  a  deed.  But,  to  be  short,  the 
best  way  to  acquaint  you  with  the  matter  is  to  show  you 
this  document  which  I  have  brought  for  the  purpose." 

Montevarchi  produced  the  famous  deed  and  carefully 
unfolded  it  upon  the  table.  Then,  after  glancing  over  it 
once  more,  he  handed  it  to  the  librarian.  The  latter  bent 
his  keen  eyes  upon  the  page  and  rapidly  deciphered  the 
contents.  Then  he  read  it  through  a  second  time  and  at 
last  laid  it  down  upon  the  table  and  looked  up  at  the 
prince  with  an  air  of  inquiry. 

"You  see,  my  dear  Meschini,"  said  Montevarchi  in 
suave  tones,  "this  agreement  was  made  by  Don  Leone 
Saracinesca  because  he  expected  to  have  no  children. 
Had  he  foreseen  what  was  to  happen  —  for  he  has  legit 
imate  descendants  alive,  he  would  have  added  a  clause 
here,  at  the  foot  of  the  first  page  —  do  you  see?  The  clause 
he  would  have  added  would  have  been  very  short  —  some 
thing  like  this,  'Provided  that  the  aforesaid  Don  Lecne 
Saracinesca  shall  have  no  son  born  to  him  in  wedlock,  in 
which  case,  and  if  such  a  son  be  born,  this  present  deed  is 
wholly  null,  void  and  ineffectual.'  Do  you  follow  me?" 

"Perfectly,"  replied  Meschini,  with  a  strange  look  in 
his  eyes.  He  again  took  the  parchment  and  looked  it 


SANT'  ILARIO.  18&- 

over,  mentally  inserting  the  words  suggested  by  his  em 
ployer.  "  If  those  words  were  inserted,  there  could  be  no 
question  about  the  view  the  tribunals  would  take.  But 
there  must  be  a  duplicate  of  the  deed  at  the  Cancellaria." 

"  Perhaps.  I  leave  that  to  your  industry  to  discover. 
Meanwhile,  I  am  sure  you  agree  with  me  that  a  piece  of 
horrible  injustice  has  been  caused  by  this  document ;  a 
piece  of  injustice,  I  repeat,  which  it  is  our  sacred  duty 
to  remedy  and  set  right." 

"  You  propose  to  me  to  introduce  this  clause,  as  I  un 
derstand,  in  this  document  and  in  the  original,"  said  the 
librarian,  as  though  he  wished  to  be  quite  certain  of  the 
nature  of  the  scheme. 

Montevarchi  turned  his  eyes  away  and  slowly  scratched 
the  table  with  his  long  nails. 

"  I  mean  to  say, "  he  answered  in  a  lower  voice,  "  that 
if  it  could  be  made  out  in  law  that  it  was  the  intention 
of  the  person,  of  Don  Leone " 

"  Let  us  speak  plainly, "  interrupted  Meschini.  "  We 
are  alone.  It  is  of  no  use  to  mince  matters  here.  The 
only  away  to  accomplish  what  you  desire  is  to  forge  the 
words  in  both  parchments.  The  thing  can  be  done,  and 
I  can  do  it.  It  will  be  successful,  without  a  shadow  of 
a  doubt.  But  I  must  have  my  price.  There  must  be  no 
misunderstanding.  I  do  not  think  much  of  your  consid 
erations  of  justice,  but  I  will  do  what  you  require,  for 
money." 

"How  much?"  asked  Montevarchi  in  a  thick  voice. 
His  heart  misgave  him,  for  he  had  placed  himself  in  the 
man's  power,  and  Meschini's  authoritative  tone  showed 
that  the  latter  knew  it,  and  meant  to  use  his  advantage. 

"  I  will  be  moderate,  for  I  am  a  poor  man.  You  shall 
give  me  twenty  thousand  scudi  in  cash,  on  the  day  the 
verdict  is  given  in  favour  of  Don  Giovanni  Saracinesca, 
Marchese  di  San  Giacinto.  That  is  your  friend's  name, 
I  believe." 

Montevarchi  started  as  the  librarian  named  the  sum, 
and  he  turned  very  pale,  passing  his  bony  hand  upon  the 
edge  of  the  table. 

"  I  would  not  have  expected  this  of  you ! "  he  ex 
claimed. 

"You  have  your  choice,"  returned  the  other,  bringing 


190  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

his  yellow  face  nearer  to  his  employer's  and  speaking 
very  distinctly.  "  You  know  what  it  all  means.  Sara- 
cinesca,  Sant'  Ilario,  and  Barda  to  your  son-in-law, 
besides  all  the  rest,  amounting  perhaps  to  several  mil 
lions.  To  me,  who  get  you  all  this,  a  paltry  twenty 

thousand.  Or  else "  he  paused  and  his  bright  eyes 

seemed  to  penetrate  into  Montevarchi's  soul.  The  lat- 
ter's  face  exhibited  a  sudden  terror,  which  Meschini 
understood. 

"Or  else?"  said  the  prince.  "Or  else,  I  suppose  you 
will  try  and  intimidate  me  by  threatening  to  expose  what 
I  have  told  you?" 

"Not  at  all,  Excellency,"  replied  the  old  scholar  with 
sudden  humility.  "  If  you  do  not  care  for  the  bargain 
let  us  leave  it  alone.  I  am  only  your  faithful  servant, 
Signor  Principe.  Do  not  suspect  me  of  such  ingratitude! 
I  only  say  that  if  we  undertake  it,  the  plan  will  be  suc 
cessful.  It  is  for  you  to  decide.  Millions  or  no  millions, 
it  is  the  same  to  me.  I  am  but  a  poor  student.  But  if 
I  help  to  get  them  for  you  —  or  for  your  son-in-law  —  I 
must  have  what  I  asked.  It  is  not  one  per  cent  —  scarcely 
a  broker's  commission!  And  you  will  have  so  much.  Not 
but  what  your  Excellency  deserves  it  all,  and  is  the  best 
judge." 

"One  per  cent?"  muttered  Montevarchi.  "Perhaps 
not  more  than  half  per  cent.  But  is  it  safe?"  he  asked 
suddenly,  his  fears  all  at  once  asserting  themselves  with 
a  force  that  bewildered  him. 

"  Leave  all  that  to  me,"  answered  Meschini  confidently. 
"  The  insertion  shall  be  made,  unknown  to  any  one,  in 
this  parchment  and  in  the  one  in  the  Chancery.  The 
documents  shall  be  returned  to  their  places  with  no 
observation,  and  a  month  or  two  later  the  Marchese  di 
San  Giacinto  can  institute  proceedings  for  the  recovery 
of  his  birthright.  I  would  only  advise  you  not  to  men 
tion  the  matter  to  him.  It  is  essential  that  he  should  be 
quite  innocent  in  order  that  the  tribunal  may  suspect 
nothing.  You  and  I,  Signor  Principe,  can  stay  at  home 
while  the  case  is  proceeding.  We  shall  not  even  see  the 
Signor  Marchese's  lawyers,  for  what  have  we  to  do  with 
it  all?  But  the  Signor  Marchese  himself  must  be  really 
free  from  vall  blame,  or  he  will  show  a  weak  point.  Now, 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  191 

when  all  is  ready,  he  should  go  to  the  Cancellaria  and 
examine  the  papers  there  for  himself.  He  himself  will 
suspect  nothing.  He  will  be  agreeably  surprised." 

"  And  how  long  will  it  take  you  to  do  the  —  the 
work?"  asked  Montevarchi  in  hesitating  tones. 

"Let  me  see,"  Meschini  began  to  make  a  calculation 
under  his  breath.  "Ink,  two  days  —  preparing  parch 
ment  for  experiments,  a  week  —  writing,  twice  over,  two 
days  —  giving  age,  drying  and  rubbing,  three  days,  at 
least.  Two,  nine,  eleven,  fourteen.  A  fortnight,"  he 
said  aloud.  "  I  cannot  do  it  in  less  time  than  that.  If 
the  copy  in  the  Chancery  is  by  another  hand  it  will  take 
longer." 

"But  how  can  you  work  at  the  Chancery?"  asked  the 
prince,  as  though  a  new  objection  had  presented  itself. 

"  Have  no  fear,  Excellency.  I  will  manage  it  so  that 
no  one  shall  find  it  out.  Two  visits  will  suffice.  Shall 
I  begin  at  once?  Is  it  agreed?" 

Montevarchi  was  silent  for  several  minutes,  and  his 
hands  moved  uneasily. 

"Begin  at  once,"  he  said  at  last,  as  though  forcing 
himself  to  make  a  determination.  He  rose  to  go  as  he 
spoke. 

"Twenty  thousand  scudi  on  the  day  the  verdict  is 
given  in  favour  of  the  Signor  Marchese.  Is  that  it?  " 

"Yes,  yes.     That  is  it.     I  leave  it  all  to  you." 

"I  will  serve  your  Excellency  faithfully,  never  fear." 

"  Do,  Meschini.  Yes.  Be  faithful  as  you  have  always 
been.  Remember,  I  am  not  avaricious.  It  is  in  the 
cause  of  sound  justice  that  I  stoop  to  assume  the  appear 
ance  of  dishonesty.  Can  a  man  do  more?  Can  one  go 
farther  than  to  lose  one's  self-esteem  by  appearing  to 
transgress  the  laws  of  honour  in  order  to  accomplish  a 
good  object;  for  the  sake  of  restoring  the  birthright  to 
the  fatherless  and  the  portion  to  the  widow,  or  indeed  to 
the  widower,  in  this  case?  No,  my  dear  friend.  The 
means  are  more  than  justified  by  the  righteousness  of  our 
purpose.  Believe  me,  my  good  Meschini  —  yes,  you  are 
good  in  the  best  sense  of  the  word  —  believe  me,  the  jus 
tice  of  this  world  is  not  always  the  same  as  the  justice 
of  Heaven.  The  dispensations  of  providence  are  mys 
terious." 


192  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"And  must  remain  so,  in  this  case,"  observed  the 
librarian  with  an  evil  smile. 

"Yes,  unfortunately,  in  this  case  we  shall  not  reap 
the  worldly  praise  which  so  kind  an  action  undoubtedly 
deserves.  But  we  must  have  patience  under  these  trials. 
Good-bye,  Meschini,  good-bye,  my  friend.  I  must  busy 
myself  with  the  affairs  of  my  household.  Every  man 
must  do  his  duty  in  this  world,  you  know." 

The  scholar  bowed  his  employer  to  the  door,  and  then 
went  back  to  the  parchment,  which  he  studied  attentively 
for  more  than  an  hour,  keeping  a  huge  folio  volume  open 
before  him,  into  which  he  might  slip  the  precious  deed 
in  case  he  were  interrupted  in  his  occupation. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

Sant'  Ilario  could  not  realise  that  the  course  of  events 
had  been  brought  to  a  standstill  at  the  very  moment 
when  his  passions  were  roused  to  fury.  He  could  not 
fight  Gouache  for  the  present  and  Corona  was  so  ill  that 
he  could  not  see  her.  Had  he  wished  to  visit  her,  the  old- 
fashioned  physician  would  probably  have  forbidden  him 
to  do  so,  but  in  reality  he  was  glad  to  be  spared  the  emo 
tions  of  a  meeting  which  must  necessarily  be  inconclu 
sive.  His  first  impulse  had  been  to  take  her  away  from 
Rome  and  force  her  to  live  alone  with  him  in  the  moun 
tains.  He  felt  that  no  other  course  was  open  to  him, 
for  he  knew  that  in  spite  of  all  that  had  happened  he 
could  not  bear  to  live  without  her,  and  yet  he  felt  that 
he  could  no  longer  suffer  her  to  come  and  go  in  the  midst 
of  society,  where  she  must  necessarily  often  meet  the 
man  she  had  chosen  to  love.  Nor  could  he  keep  her  in 
Rome  and  at  the  same  time  isolate  her  as  he  desired  to 
do.  If  the  world  must  talk,  he  would  rather  not  be 
where  he  could  hear  what  it  said.  The  idea  of  a  sudden 
journey,  terminating  in  the  gloomy  fortress  of  Saracin- 
esca,  was  pleasant  to  his  humour.  The  old  place  was 
ten  times  more  grim  and  dismal  in  winter  than  in  sum- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  193 

mer,  and  in  his  savage  mood  he  fancied  himself  alone 
with  his  wife  in  the  silent  halls,  making  her  feel  the 
enormity  of  what  she  had  done,  while  jealously  keeping 
her  a  prisoner  at  his  mercy. 

But  her  illness  had  put  a  stop  to  his  plans  for  her 
safety,  while  the  revolution  had  effectually  interfered 
with  the  execution  of  his  vengeance  upon  Gouache.  He 
could  find  no  occupation  which  might  distract  his  mind 
from  the  thoughts  that  beset  him,  and  no  outlet  for  the 
restless  temper  that  craved  some  sort  of  action,  no  matter 
what,  as  the  expression  of  what  he  suffered.  He  and  his 
father  met  in  silence  at  their  meals,  and  though  Gio 
vanni  felt  that  he  had  the  old  man's  full  sympathy,  he 
could  not  bring  himself  to  speak  of  what  was  nearest  to 
his  heart.  He  remembered  that  his  marriage  had  been 
of  his  own  seeking,  and  his  pride  kept  him  from  all  men 
tion  of  the  catastrophe  by  which  his  happiness  had  been 
destroyed.  Old  Saracinesca  suffered  in  his  own  way 
almost  as  much  as  his  son,  and  it  was  fortunate  that  he 
was  prevented  from  seeing  Corona  at  that  time,  for  it  is 
not  probable  that  he  would  have  controlled  himself  had 
he  been  able  to  talk  with  her  alone.  When  little  Orsino 
was  brought  in  to  them,  the  two  men  looked  at  each  other, 
and  while  the  younger  bit  his  lip  and  suppressed  all  out 
ward  signs  of  his  agony,  the  tears  more  than  once  stole 
into  the  old  prince's  eyes  so  that  he  would  turn  away  and 
leave  the  room.  Then  Giovanni  would  take  the  child 
upon  his  knee  and  look  at  it  earnestly  until  the  little 
thing  was  frightened  and  held  out  its  arms  to  its  nurse, 
crying  to  be  taken  away.  Thereupon  Sant'  Ilario's  mood 
grew  more  bitter  than  before,  for  he  was  foolish  enough 
to  believe  that  the  child  had  a  natural  antipathy  for  him, 
and  would  grow  up  to  hate  the  sight  of  its  father.  Those 
were  miserable  days,  never  to  be  forgotten,  and  each 
morning  and  evening  brought  worse  news  of  Corona's 
state,  until  it  was  clear,  even  to  Giovanni,  that  she  was 
dangerously  ill.  The  sound  of  voices  grew  rare  in  the 
Palazzo  Saracinesca  and  the  servants  moved  noiselessly 
about  at  their  work,  oppressed  by  the  sense  of  coming 
disaster,  and  scarcely  speaking  to  each  other. 

San  Giacinto  came  daily  to  make  inquiries  and  spent 
some  time  with  the  two  unhappy  men  without  wholly 

o 


194  SANT'  ILARIO. 

understanding  what  was  passing.  He  was  an  astute  man, 
but  not  possessed  of  the  delicacy  of  feeling  whereby  real 
sympathy  sometimes  reaches  the  truth  by  its  own  intui 
tive  reasoning.  Moreover,  he  was  wholly  ignorant  of 
having  played  a  very  important  part  in  bringing  about 
the  troubles  which  now  beset  Casa  Saracinesca.  No  one 
but  himself  knew  how  he  had  written  the  note  that  had 
caused  such  disastrous  results,  and  he  had  no  intention 
of  confiding  his  exploit  to  any  one  of  his  acquaintance. 
He  had  of  course  not  been  able  to  ascertain  whether  the 
desired  effect  had  been  produced,  for  he  did  not  know  at 
what  church  the  meeting  between  Faustina  and  Gouache 
was  to  take  place,  and  he  was  too  cunning  to  follow  her 
as  a  spy  when  he  had  struck  so  bold  a  blow  at  her  affec 
tion  for  the  artist-soldier.  His  intellect  was  keen,  but 
his  experience  had  not  been  of  a  high  order,  and  he 
naturally  thought  that  she  would  reason  as  he  had  rea 
soned  himself,  if  she  chanced  to  see  him  while  she  was 
waiting  for  the  man  she  loved.  She  knew  that  he  was 
to  marry  her  sister,  and  that  he  might  therefore  be  sup 
posed  to  disapprove  of  an  affair  which  could  only  lead  to 
a  derogatory  match  for  herself,  and  he  had  therefore 
carefully  abstained  from  following  her  on  that  Sunday 
morning  when  she  had  met  Anastase. 

Nevertheless  he  could  see  that  something  had  occurred 
in  his  cousin's  household  which  was  beyond  his  compre 
hension,  for  Corona's  illness  was  not  alone  enough  to 
account  for  the  manner  of  the  Saracinesca.  It  is  a  social 
rule  in  Italy  that  a  person  suffering  from  any  calamity 
must  be  amused,  and  San  Giacinto  used  what  talents  he 
possessed  in  that  direction,  doing  all  he  could  to  make 
the  time  hang  less  heavily  on  Giovanni's  hands.  He 
made  a  point  of  gathering  all  the  news  of  the  little  war 
in  order  to  repeat  it  in  minute  detail  to  his  cousins.  He 
even  prevailed  upon  Giovanni  to  walk  with  him  some 
times  in  the  middle  of  the  day,  and  Sant'  Ilario  seemed 
to  take  a  languid  interest  in  the  barricades  erected  at  the 
gates  of  the  city,  and  in  the  arrangements  for  maintain 
ing  quiet  within  the  walls.  Eome  presented  a  strange 
aspect  in  those  days.  All  who  were  not  Romans  kept 
their  national  flags  permanently  hung  from  their  win 
dows,  as  a  sort  of  protection  in  case  the  mob  should  rise, 


or  in  the  event  of  the  Garibaldians  suddenly  seizing  the 
capital.  Patrols  marched  everywhere  about  the  streets 
and  mounted  gendarmes  were  stationed  at  the  corners  of 
the  principal  squares  and  at  intervals  along  the  main 
thoroughfares.  Strange  to  say,  the  numerous  flags  and 
uniforms  that  were  to  be  seen  produced  an  air  of  festivity 
strongly  at  variance  with  the  actual  state  of  things,  and 
belied  by  the  anxious  expressions  visible  in  the  faces  of 
the  inhabitants.  All  these  sights  interested  San  Gia- 
cinto,  whose  active  temperament  made  him  very  much 
alive  to  what  went  on  around  him,  and  even  Giovanni 
thought  less  of  his  great  sorrow  when  he  suffered  himself 
to  be  led  out  of  the  house  by  his  cousin. 

When  at  last  it  was  known  that  the  French  troops  were 
on  their  way  from  Civita  Vecchia,  the  city  seemed  to 
breathe  more  freely.  General  Kanzler,  the  commander- 
in-chief  of  the  Pontifical  forces,  had  done  all  that  was 
humanly  possible  to  concentrate  his  little  army,  and  the 
arrival  of  even  a  small  body  of  Frenchmen  made  it  cer 
tain  that  Garibaldi  could  be  met  with  a  fair  chance  of 
success.  Of  all  who  rejoiced  at  the  prospect  of  a  deci 
sive  action,  there  was  no  one  more  sincerely  delighted 
than  Anastase  Gouache. 

So  long  as  the  state  of  siege  lasted  and  he  was  obliged 
to  follow  the  regular  round  of  his  almost  mechanical 
duty,  he  was  unable  to  take  any  step  in  the  direction 
whither  all  his  hopes  tended,  and  he  lived  in  a  state  of 
perpetual  suspense.  It  was  a  small  consolation  that  he 
found  time  to  reflect  upon  the  difficulties  of  his  situation 
and  to  revolve  in  his  mind  the  language  he  should  use 
when  he  went  to  ask  the  hand  of  Monte varchi's  daughter. 
He  was  fully  determined  to  take  this  bold  step,  and 
though  he  realised  the  many  objections  which  the  old 
prince  would  certainly  raise  against  the  match,  he  had 
not  the  slightest  doubt  of  his  power  to  overcome  them 
all.  He  could  not  imagine  what  it  would  be  like  to  fail, 
and  he  cherished  and  reared  what  should  have  been  but 
a  slender  hope  until  it  seemed  to  be  a  certainty.  The 
unexpected  quarrel  thrust  upon  him  by  Sant'  Ilario 
troubled  him  very  little,  for  he  was  too  hopeful  by  nature 
to  expect  any  serious  catastrophe,  and  he  more  than  once 
laughed  to  himself  when  he  thought  Giovanni  was  really 


196  SANT'  ILARIO. 

jealous  of  him.  The  feeling  of  reverence  and  respectful 
admiration  which  he  had  long  entertained  for  Corona  was 
so  far  removed  from  love  as  to  make  Giovanni's  wrath 
appear  ridiculous.  He  would  far  sooner  have  expected 
a  challenge  from  one  of  Faustina's  brothers  than  from 
Corona's  husband,  but,  since  Sant'  Ilario  had  determined 
to  quarrel,  there  was  no  help  for  it,  and  he  must  give 
him  all  satisfaction  as  soon  as  possible.  That  Giovanni 
had  insulted  him  by  entering  his  lodgings  unbidden,  and 
by  taking  certain  objects  away  which  were  practically 
the  artist's  property,  was  a  minor  consideration,  since  it 
was  clear  that  Giovanni  had  acted  all  along  under  an 
egregious  misapprehension.  One  thing  alone  puzzled 
Anastase,  and  that  was  the  letter  itself.  It  seemed  to 
refer  to  his  meeting  with  Faustina,  but  she  had  made  no 
mention  of  it  when  he  had  seen  her  in  the  church. 
Gouache  did  not  suspect  Giovanni  of  having  concocted 
the  note  for  any  purposes  of  his  own,  and  quite  believed 
that  he  had  found  it  as  he  had  stated,  but  the  more  the 
artist  tried  to  explain  the  existence  of  the  letter,  the 
further  he  found  himself  from  any  satisfactory  solution 
of  the  question.  He  interrogated  his  landlady,  but  she 
would  say  nothing  about  it,  for  the  temptation  of  Gio 
vanni's  money  sealed  her  lips. 

The  week  passed  somehow,  unpleasantly  enough  for 
most  of  the  persons  concerned  in  this  veracious  history, 
but  Saturday  night  came  at  last,  and  brought  with  it  a 
series  of  events  which  modified  the  existing  situation. 
Gouache  was  on  duty  at  the  barracks  when  orders  were 
received  to  the  effect  that  the  whole  available  force  in 
Rome  was  to  march  soon  after  midnight.  His  face 
brightened  when  he  heard  the  news,  although  he  realised 
that  in  a  few  hours  he  was  to  leave  behind  him  all  that 
he  held  most  dear  and  to  face  death  in  a  manner  new  to 
him,  and  by  no  means  pleasant  to  most  men. 

Between  two  and  three  o'clock  on  Sunday  morning 
Gouache  found  himself  standing  in  the  midst  of  a  corps 
of  fifteen  hundred  Zouaves,  in  almost  total  darkness  and 
under  a  cold,  drizzling  November  rain.  His  teeth  chat 
tered  and  his  wet  hands  seemed  to  freeze  to  the  polished 
fittings  of  his  rifle,  and  he  had  not  the  slightest  doubt  that 
every  one  of  his  comrades  experienced  the  same  unenvi- 


SANT*   ILARIO.  197 

able  sensations.  From  time  to  time  the  clear  voice  of 
an  officer  was  heard  giving  an  order,  and  then  the  ranks 
closed  up  nearer,  or  executed  a  sidelong  movement  by 
which  greater  space  was  afforded  to  the  other  troops  that 
constantly  came  up  towards  the  Porta  Pia.  There  was 
little  talking  during  an  hour  or  more  while  the  last 
preparations  for  the  inarch  were  being  made,  though  the 
men  exchanged  a  few  words  from  time  to  time  in  an 
undertone.  The  splashing  tramp  of  feet  on  the  wet  road 
was  heard  rapidly  approaching  every  now  and  then,  fol 
lowed  by  a  dead  silence  when  the  officers'  voices  gave  the 
order  to  halt.  Then  a  shuffling  sound  followed  as  the 
ranks  moved  into  the  exact  places  assigned  to  them. 
Here  and  there  a  huge  torch  was  blazing  and  spluttering 
in  the  fine  rain,  making  the  darkness  around  it  seem  only 
thicker  by  the  contrast,  but  lighting  up  fragments  of 
ancient  masonry  and  gleaming  upon  little  pools  of  water 
in  the  open  spaces  between  the  ranks.  It  was  a  dismal 
night,  and  it  was  fortunate  that  the  men  who  were  to 
march  were  in  good  spirits  and  encouraged  by  the  arrival 
of  the  French,  who  made  the  circuit  of  the  city  and  were 
to  join  them  upon  the  road  in  order  to  strike  the  final 
blow  against  Garibaldi  and  his  volunteers. 

The  Zouaves  were  fifteen  hundred,  and  there  were 
about  as  many  more  of  the  native  troops,  making  three 
thousand  in  all.  The  French  were  two  thousand.  The 
Garibaldians  were,  according  to  all  accounts,  not  less 
than  twelve  thousand,  and  were  known  to  be  securely 
entrenched  at  Monte  Eotondo  and  further  protected  by  the 
strong  outpost  of  Mentana,  which  lies  nearly  on  the 
direct  road  from  Rome  to  the  former  place.  Considering 
the  relative  positions  of  the  two  armies,  the  odds  were 
enormously  in  favour  of  Garibaldi,  and  had  he  possessed 
a  skill  in  generalship  at  all  equal  to  his  undoubted  per 
sonal  courage,  he  should  have  been  able  to -drive  the 
Pope's  forces  back  to  the  very  gates  of  Rome.  He  was, 
however,  under  a  twofold  disadvantage  which  more  than 
counterbalanced  the  numerical  superiority  of  the  body 
he  commanded.  He  possessed  little  or  no  military 
science,  and  his  men  were  neither  confident  nor  deter 
mined.  His  plan  had  been  to  create  a  revolution  in 
Rome  and  to  draw  out  the  papal  army  at  the  same  time, 


198 

in  order  that  the  latter  might  find  itself  between  two 
fires.  His  men  had  expected  that  the  country  would  rise 
and  welcome  them  as  liberators,  whereas  they  were 
received  as  brigands  and  opposed  with  desperate  energy 
at  every  point  by  the  peasants  themselves,  a  turn  of 
affairs  for  which  they  were  by  no  means  prepared. 
Monte  Eotondo,  defended  by  only  three  hundred  and 
fifty  soldiers,  resisted  Garibaldi's  attacking  force  of  six 
thousand  during  twenty-seven  hours,  a  feat  which  must 
have  been  quite  impracticable  had  the  inhabitants  them 
selves  not  joined  in  the  defence.  The  revolution  in  Eome 
was  a  total  failure,  the  mass  of  the  people  looking  on 
with  satisfaction,  while  the  troops  shot  down  the  insur 
gents,  and  at  times  even  demanding  arms  that  they 
might  join  in  suppressing  the  disturbance. 

The  Eome  of  1867  was  not  the  Eome  of  1870,  as  will 
perhaps  be  understood  hereafter.  With  the  exception  of 
a  few  turbulent  spirits,  the  city  contained  no  revolution 
ary  element,  and  very  few  who  sympathised  with  the 
ideas  of  Italian  Unification. 

But  without  going  any  further  into  political  consider 
ations  for  the  present,  let  us  follow  Anastase  Gouache 
and  his  fifteen  hundred  comrades  who  marched  out  of 
the  Porta  Pia  before  dawn  on  the  third  of  November. 
The  battle  that  followed  merits  some  attention  as  having 
been  the  turning-point  of  a  stirring  time,  and  also  as 
having  produced  certain  important  results  in  the  life  of 
the  French  artist,  which  again  reacted  in  some  measure 
upon  the  family  history  of  the  Saracinesca. 

Monte  Eotondo  itself  is  sixteen  miles  from  Eome,  but 
Mentana,  which  on  that  day  was  the  outpost  of  the 
Garibaldians  and  became  the  scene  of  their  defeat,  is  two 
miles  nearer  to  the  city.  Most  people  who  have  ridden 
much  in  the  Campagna  know  the  road  which  branches 
to  the  left  about  five  miles  beyond  the  Ponte  Komentano. 
There  is  perhaps  no  more  desolate  and  bleak  part  of  the 
undulating  waste  of  land  that  surrounds  the  city  on  all 
sides.  The  way  is  good  as  far  as  the  turning,  but  after 
that  it  is  little  better  than  a  country  lane,  and  in  rainy 
weather  is  heavy  and  sometimes  almost  impassable.  As 
the  rider  approaches  Mentana  the  road  sinks  between  low 
hills  and  wooded  knolls  that  dominate  it  on  both  sides, 


SANT'  ILARIO.  199 

affording  excellent  positions  from  which  an  enemy  might 
harass  and  even  destroy  an  advancing  force.  Gradually 
the  country  becomes  more  broken  until  Mentana  itself 
appears  in  view,  a  formidable  barrier  rising  upon  the 
direct  line  to  Monte  Rotondo.  On  all  sides  are  irregular 
hillocks,  groups  of  trees  growing  upon  little  elevations, 
solid  stone  walls  surrounding  scattered  farmhouses  and 
cattle-yards,  every  one  of  which  could  be  made  a  strong 
defensive  post.  Mentana,  too,  possesses  an  ancient  cas 
tle  of  some  strength,  and  has  walls  of  its  own  like  most 
of  the  old  towns  in  the  Campagna,  insignificant  perhaps, 
if  compared  with  modern  fortifications,  but  well  able  to 
resist  for  many  hours  the  fire  of  light  field-guns. 

It  was  past  midday  when  Gouache's  column  first  came 
in  view  of  the  enemy,  and  made  out  the  bright  red  shirts 
of  the  Garibaldians,  which  peeped  out  from  among  the 
trees  and  from  behind  the  walls,  and  were  visible  in  some 
places  massed  in  considerable  numbers.  The  intention 
of  the  commanding  officers,  which  was  carried  out  with 
amazing  ease,  was  to  throw  the  Zouaves  and  native 
troops  in  the  face  of  the  enemy,  while  the  French  chas 
seurs,  on  foot  and  mounted,  made  a  flanking  movement  and 
cut  off  Garibaldi's  communication  with  Monte  Eotondo, 
attacking  Mentana  at  the  same  time  from  the  opposite 
side. 

Gouache  experienced  an  odd  sensation  when  the  first 
orders  were  given  to  fire.  His  experience  had  hitherto 
been  limited  to  a  few  skirmishes  with  the  outlaws  of  the 
Samnite  hills,  and  the  idea  of  standing  up  and  deliber 
ately  taking  aim  at  men  who  stood  still  to  be  shot  at,  so 
far  as  he  could  see,  was  not  altogether  pleasant.  He 
confessed  to  himself  that  though  he  wholly  approved  of 
the  cause  for  which  he  was  about  to  fire  his  musket,  he 
felt  not  the  slightest  hatred  for  the  Garibaldians,  indi 
vidually  or  collectively.  They  were  extremely  pictur 
esque  in  the  landscape,  with  their  flaming  shirts  and 
theatrical  hats.  They  looked  very  much  as  though  they 
had  come  out  of  a  scene  in  a  comic  opera,  and  it  seemed 
a  pity  to  destroy  anything  that  relieved  the  dismal  gray- 
ness  of  the  November  day.  As  he  stood  there  he  felt 
much  more  like  the  artist  he  was,  than  like  a  soldier, 
and  he  felt  a  ludicrously  strong  desire  to  step  aside  and 


200  SANT'  ILARIO. 

seat  himself  upon  a  stone  wall  in  order  to  get  a  better 
view  of  the  whole  scene. 

Presently  as  he  looked  at  a  patch  of  red  three  or  four 
hundred  yards  distant,  the  vivid  colour  was  obscured  by 
a  little  row  of  puffs  of  smoke.  A  rattling  report  fol 
lowed,  which  reminded  him  of  the  discharges  of  the  tiny 
mortars  the  Italian  peasants  love  to  fire  at  their  village 
festivals.  Then  almost  simultaneously  he  heard  the 
curious  swinging  whistle  of  a  dozen  bullets  flying  over 
his  head.  This  latter  sound  roused  him  to  an  under 
standing  of  the  situation,  as  he  realised  that  any  one  of 
those  small  missiles  might  have  ended  its  song  by  com 
ing  into  contact  with  his  own  body.  The  next  time  he 
heard  the  order  to  fire  he  aimed  as  well  as  he  could,  and 
pulled  the  trigger  with  the  best  possible  intention  of 
killing  an  enemy. 

For  the  most  part,  the  Garibaldians  retired  after  each 
round,  reappearing  again  to  discharge  their  rifles  from 
behind  the  shelter  of  walls  and  trees,  while  the  Zouaves 
slowly  advanced  along  the  road,  and  began  to  deploy  to 
the  right  and  left  wherever  the  ground  permitted  such 
a  movement.  The  firing  continued  uninterruptedly  for 
nearly  half  an  hour,  but  though  the  rifles  of  the  papal 
troops  did  good  execution  upon  the  enemy,  the  bullets 
of  the  latter  seldom  produced  any  effect. 

Suddenly  the  order  was  given  to  fix  bayonets,  and 
immediately  afterwards  came  the  command  to  charge. 
Gouache  was  all  at  once  aware  that  he  was  rushing  up 
hill  at  the  top  of  his  speed  towards  a  small  grove  of  trees 
that  crowned  the  eminence.  The  bright  red  shirts  of  the 
enemy  were  visible  before  him  amongst  the  dry  under 
brush,  and  before  he  knew  what  he  was  about  he  saw 
that  he  had  run  a  Garibaldian  through  the  calf  of  the 
leg.  The  man  tumbled  down,  and  Gouache  stood  over 
him,  looking  at  him  in  some  surprise.  While  he  was 
staring  at  his  fellow-foe  the  latter  pulled  out  a  pistol  and 
fired  at  him,  but  the  weapon  only  snapped  harmlessly. 

"As  the  thing  won't  go  off,"  said  the  man  coolly, 
"  perhaps  you  will  be  good  enough  to  take  your  bayonet 
out  of  my  leg." 

He  spoke  in  Italian,  with  a  foreign  accent,  but  in  a 
tone  of  voice  and  with  a  manner  which  proclaimed  him 


SANT'  ILARIO.  201 

a  gentleman.  There  was  a  look  of  half  comic  discomfit 
ure  in  his  face  that  amused  Gouache,  who  carefully 
extracted  the  steel  from  the  wound,  and  offered  to  help 
his  prisoner  to  his  feet.  The  latter,  however,  found  it 
hard  to  stand. 

"Circumstances  point  to  the  sitting  posture,"  he  said, 
sinking  down  again.  "I  suppose  I  am  your  prisoner. 
If  you  have  anything  to  do,  pray  do  not  let  me  detain 
you.  I  cannot  get  away  and  you  will  probably  find  me 
here  when  you  come  back  to  dinner.  I  will  occupy 
myself  in  cursing  you  while  you  are  gone." 

"You  are  very  kind,"  said  Gouache,  with  a  laugh. 
"May  I  offer  you  a  cigarette  and  a  little  brandy?" 

The  stranger  looked  up  in  some  astonishment  as  he 
heard  Gouache's  voice,  and  took  the  proffered  flask  in 
silence,  as  well  as  a  couple  of  cigarettes  from  the  case. 

"  Thank  you,  '•'  he  said  after  a  pause.  "  I  will  not  curse 
you  quite  as  heartily  as  I  meant  to  do.  You  are  very 
civil." 

"Do  not  mention  it,"  replied  Gouache.  "I  wish  you 
a  very  good-morning,  and  I  hope  to  have  the  pleasure  of 
your  company  at  dinner  to-night." 

Thereupon  the  Zouave  shouldered  his  rifle  and  trotted 
off  down  the  hill.  The  whole  incident  had  not  occupied 
more  than  three  minutes  and  his  comrades  were  not  far 
off,  pursuing  the  Garibaldians  in  the  direction  of  a  large 
farmhouse,  which  afforded  the  prospect  of  shelter  and 
the  means  of  defence.  Half  a  dozen  killed  and  wounded 
remained  upon  the  hill  besides  Gouache's  prisoner. 

The  Vigna  di  Santucci,  as  the  farmhouse  was  called, 
was  a  strong  building  surrounded  by  walls  and  fences. 
A  large  number  of  the  enemy  had  fallen  back  upon  this 
point  and  it  now  became  evident  that  they  meant  to  make 
a  determined  resistance.  As  the  Zouaves  came  up,  led 
by  Charette  in  person,  the  Reds  opened  a  heavy  fire  upon 
their  advancing  ranks.  The  shots  rattled  from  the  walls 
and  windows  in  rapid  succession,  and  took  deadly  effect 
at  the  short  range.  The  Zouaves  blazed  away  in  reply 
with  their  chassepots,  but  the  deep  embrasures  and  high 
parapets  offered  an  excellent  shelter  for  the  riflemen, 
and  it  was  no  easy  matter  to  find  an  aim.  The  colonel's 
magnificent  figure  and  great  fair  beard  were  conspicuous 


202  SANT'  ILARIO. 

as  he  moved  about  the  ranks,  encouraging  the  men  and 
searching  for  some  means  of  scaling  the  high  walls. 
Though  anxious  for  the  safety  of  his  troops,  he  seemed 
as  much  at  home  as  though  he  were  in  a  drawing-room, 
and  paid  no  more  attention  to  the  whistling  bullets  than 
if  they  had  been  mere  favours  showered  upon  him  in  an 
afternoon's  carnival.  The  firing  grew  hotter  every  mo 
ment  and  it  was  evident  that  unless  the  place  could  be 
carried  by  assault  at  once,  the  Zouaves  must  suffer  ter 
rible  losses.  The  difficulty  was  to  find  a  point  where  the 
attempt  might  be  made  with  a  good  chance  of  success. 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Gouache,  to  a  big  man  who 
stood  next  to  him,  "  that  if  we  were  in  Paris,  and  if  that 
were  a  barricade  instead  of  an  Italian  farmhouse,  we 
should  get  over  it." 

"I  think  so,  too,"  replied  his  comrade,  with  a  laugh. 

"Let  us  try,"  suggested  the  artist  quietly.  "We  may 
as  well  have  made  the  attempt,  instead  of  standing  here 
to  catch  cold  in  this  horrible  mud.  Come  along,"  he 
added  quickly,  "  or  we  shall  be  too  late.  The  colonel  is 
going  to  order  the  assault  —  do  you  see?" 

It  was  true.  A  loud  voice  gave  a  word  of  command 
which  was  echoed  and  repeated  by  a  number  of  officers. 
The  men  closed  in  and  made  a  rush  for  the  farmhouse, 
trying  to  scramble  upon  each  other's  shoulders  to  reach 
the  top  of  the  wall  and  the  windows  of  the  low  first  story. 
The  attempt  lasted  several  minutes,  during  which  the 
enemies'  rifles  poured  down  a  murderous  fire  upon  the 
struggling  soldiers.  The  latter  fell  back  at  last,  leaving 
one  man  alone  clinging  to  the  top  of  the  wall. 

"  It  is  Gouache !  "  cried  a  hundred  voices  at  once.  He 
was  a  favourite  with  officers  and  men  and  was  recognised 
immediately. 

He  was  in  imminent  peril  of  his  life.  Standing  upon 
the  shoulders  of  the  sturdy  comrade  to  whom  he  had 
been  speaking  a  few  minutes  before  he  had  made  a 
spring,  and  had  succeeded  in  getting  hold  of  the  topmost 
stones.  Taking  advantage  of  the  slight  foothold  afforded 
by  the  crevices  in  the  masonry,  he  drew  himself  up  with 
catlike  agility  till  he  was  able  to  kneel  upon  the  narrow 
summit.  He  had  chosen  a  spot  for  his  attempt  where  he 
had  previously  observed  that  no  enemy  appeared,  rightly 


SANT'  ILARIO.  203 

judging  that  there  must  be  some  reason  for  this  pecu 
liarity,  of  which  he  might  be  able  to  take  advantage. 
This  proved  to  be  the  case,  for  he  found  himself  imme 
diately  over  a  horse  pond,  which  was  sunk  between  two 
banks  of  earth  that  followed  the  wall  on  the  inside  up  to 
the  water,  and  upon  which  the  riflemen  stood  in  safety 
behind  the  parapet.  The  men  so  stationed  had  discharged 
their  pieces  during  the  assault,  and  were  busily  employed 
in  reloading  when  they  noticed  the  Zouave  perched  upon 
the  top  of  the  wall.  One  or  two  who  had  pistols  fired 
them  at  him,  but  without  effect.  One  or  two  threw 
stones  from  the  interior  of  the  vineyard. 

Gouache  threw  himself  on  his  face  along  the  wall  and 
began  quickly  to  throw  down  the  topmost  stones.  The 
mortar  was  scarcely  more  solid  than  dry  mud,  and  in  a 
few  seconds  he  had  made  a  perceptible  impression  upon 
the  masonry.  But  the  riflemen  had  meanwhile  finished 
reloading  and  one  of  them,  taking  careful  aim,  fired  upon 
the  Zouave.  The  bullet  hit  him  in  the  fleshy  part  of  the 
shoulder,  causing  a  stinging  pain  and,  what  was  worse,  a 
shock  that  nearly  sent  him  rolling  over  the  edge.  Still 
he  clung  on  desperately,  loosening  the  stones  with  a 
strength  one  would  not  have  expected  in  his  spare  frame. 
A  minute  longer,  during  which  half  a  dozen  more  balls 
whizzed  over  him  or  flattened  themselves  against  the 
stones,  and  then  his  comrades  made  another  rush,  con 
centrating  their  force  this  time  at  the  spot  where  he  had 
succeeded  in  lowering  the  barrier.  His  left  arm  was 
almost  powerless  from  the  flesh-wound  in  his  shoulder, 
but  with  his  right  he  helped  the  first  man  to  a  footing 
beside  him.  In  a  moment  more  the  Zouaves  were  swarm 
ing  over  the  wall  and  dropping  down  by  scores  into  the 
shallow  pool  on  the  other  side. 

The  fight  was  short  but  desperate.  The  enemy,  driven 
to  bay  in  the  corners  of  the  yard  and  within  the  farm 
house,  defended  themselves  manfully,  many  of  them  being 
killed  and  many  more  wounded.  But  the  place  was  car 
ried  and  the  great  majority  fled  precipitately  through  the 
exits  at  the  back  and  made  the  best  of  their  way  towards 
Mentana. 

An  hour  later  Gouache  was  still  on  his  legs,  but  ex 
hausted  by  his  efforts  in  scaling  the  wall  and  by  loss  of 


204  SANT'  ILABIO, 

blood  from  his  wound,  he  felt  that  he  could  not  hold  out 
much  longer.  The  position  at  that  time  was  precarious. 
It  was  nearly  four  o'clock  and  the  days  were  short.  The 
artillery  was  playing  against  the  little  town,  but  the 
guns  were  light  field-pieces  of  small  calibre,  and  though 
their  position  was  frequently  changed  they  made  but 
little  impression  upon  the  earthworks  thrown  up  by  the 
enemy.  The  Garibaldians  massed  themselves  in  large 
numbers  as  they  retreated  from  various  points  upon  Men- 
tana,  and  though  their  weapons  were  inferior  to  those  of 
their  opponents  their  numbers  made  them  still  formida 
ble.  The  Zouaves,  gendarmes,  and  legionaries,  however, 
pressed  steadily  though  slowly  onward.  The  only  ques 
tion  was  whether  the  daylight  would  last  long  enough. 
Should  the  enemy  have  the  advantage  of  the  long  night 
in  which  to  bring  up  reinforcements  from  Monte  Ectondo 
and  repair  the  breaches  in  their  defences  the  attack  might 
last  through  all  the  next  day. 

The  fortunes  of  the  little  battle  were  decided  by  the 
French  chasseurs,  who  had  gradually  worked  out  a  flank 
ing  movement  under  cover  of  the  trees  and  the  broken 
country.  Just  as  Gouache  felt  that  he  coiild  stand  no 
longer,  a  loud  shout  upon  the  right  announced  the  charge 
of  the  allies,  and  a  few  minutes  later  the  day  was  prac 
tically  won.  The  Zouaves  rushed  forward,  cheered  and 
encouraged  by  the  prospect  of  immediate  success,  but 
Anastase  staggered  from  the  ranks  and  sank  down  under 
a  tree  unable  to  go  any  farther.  He  had  scarcely  settled 
himself  in  a  comfortable  position  when  he  lost  conscious 
ness  and  fainted  away. 

Mentana  was  not  taken,  but  it  surrendered  on  the  fol 
lowing  morning,  and  as  Monte  Rotondo  had  been  evac 
uated  during  the  night  and  most  of  the  Garibaldians 
had  escaped  over  the  frontier,  the  fighting  was  at  an 
end,  and  the  campaign  of  twenty-four  hours  terminated 
in  a  complete  victory  for  the  Roman  forces. 

When  Gouache  came  to  himself  his  first  sensation  was 
that  of  a  fiery  stream  of  liquid  gurgling  in  his  mouth  and 
running  down  his  throat.  He  swallowed  the  liquor  half 
unconsciously,  and  opening  his  eyes  for  a  moment  was 
aware  that  two  men  were  standing  beside  him,  one  of 
them  holding  a  lantern  in  his  hand,  the  rays  from  which 


SANT'  ILABIO.  205 

dazzled  the  wounded  Zouave  and  prevented  him  from 
recognising  the  persons. 

"Where  is  he  hurt?"  asked  a  voice  that  sounded 
strangely  familiar  in  his  ears. 

"I  cannot  tell  yet,"  replied  the  other  man,  kneeling 
down  again  beside  him  and  examining  him  attentively. 

"It  is  only  my  shoulder,"  gasped  Gouache.  "But  I  am 
very  weak.  Let  me  sleep,  please. "  Thereupon  he  fainted 
again,  and  was  conscious  of  nothing  more  for  some  time. 

The  two  men  took  him  up  and  carried  him  to  a  place 
near,  where  others  were  waiting  for  him.  The  night  was 
intensely  dark,  and  no  one  spoke  a  word,  as  the  little 
party  picked  its  way  over  the  battle-field,  occasionally 
stopping  to  avoid  treading  upon  one  of  the  numerous 
prostrate  bodies  that  lay  upon  the  ground.  The  man 
who  had  examined  Gouache  generally  stooped  down  and 
turned  the  light  of  his  lantern  upon  the  faces  of  the  dead 
men,  expecting  that  some  one  of  them  might  show  signs 
of  life.  But  it  was  very  late,  and  the  wounded  had 
already  been  carried  away.  Gouache  alone  seemed  to 
have  escaped  observation,  an  accident  probably  due  to 
the  fact  that  he  had  been  able  to  drag  himself  to  a  shel 
tered  spot  before  losing  his  senses. 

During  nearly  an  hour  the  men  trudged  along  the  road 
with  their  burden,  when  at  last  they  saw  in  the  distance 
the  bright  lamps  of  a  carriage  shining  through  the  dark 
ness.  The  injured  soldier  was  carefully  placed  among 
the  cushions,  and  the  two  gentlemen  who  had  found  him 
got  in  and  closed  the  door. 

Gouache  awoke  in  consequence  of  the  pain  caused  by 
the  jolting  of  the  vehicle.  The  lantern  was  placed  upon 
one  of  the  vacant  seats  and  illuminated  the  faces  of  his 
companions,  one  of  whom  sat  behind  him  and  supported 
his  weight  by  holding  one  arm  around  his  body.  Anas- 
tase  stared  at  this  man's  face  for  some  time  in  silence 
and  in  evident  surprise.  He  thought  he  was  in  a  dream, 
and  he  spoke  rather  to  assure  himself  that  he  was  awake 
than  for  any  other  reason. 

"You  were  anxious  lest  I  should  escape  you  after  all," 
he  said.  "  You  need  not  be  afraid.  I  shall  be  able  to 
keep  my  engagement." 

"I  trust  you  will  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  my  dear 
Gouache,"  answered  Giovanni  Saracinesca, 


206  SANT'  ILAEIO. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

On  the  Saturday  afternoon  preceding  the  battle  of 
Mentana,  Sant'  Ilario  was  alone  in  his  own  room,  trying 
to  pass  the  weary  hours  in  the  calculation  of  certain 
improvements  he  meditated  at  Saracinesca.  He  had 
grown  very  thin  and  careworn  during  the  week,  and  he 
found  it  hard  to  distract  his  mind  even  for  a  moment 
from  the  thought  of  his  misfortunes.  Nothing  but  a 
strong  mental  effort  in  another  direction  could  any  longer 
fix  his  attention,  and  though  any  kind  of  work  was  for 
the  present  distasteful  to  him,  it  was  at  least  a  temporary 
relief  from  the  contemplation  of  his  misfortunes. 

He  could  not  bring  himself  to  see  Corona,  though  she 
grew  daily  worse,  and  both  the  physicians  and  the  attend 
ants  who  were  about  her  looked  grave.  His  action  in  this 
respect  did  not  proceed  from  heartlessness,  still  less  from 
any  wish  to  add  to  her  sufferings;  on  the  contrary,  he 
knew  very  well  that,  since  he  could  not  speak  to  her  with 
words  of  forgiveness,  the  sight  of  him  would  very  likely 
aggravate  her  state.  He  had  no  reason  to  forgive  her, 
for  nothing  had  happened  to  make  her  guilt  seem  more 
pardonable  than  before.  Had  she  been  well  and  strong 
as  usual  he  would  have  seen  her  often  and  would  very 
likely  have  reproached  her  again  and  again  most  bitterly 
with  what  she  had  done.  But  she  was  ill  and  wholly 
unable  to  defend  herself;  to  inflict  fresh  pain  at  such  a 
time  would  have  been  mean  and  cowardly.  He  kept 
away  and  did  his  best  not  to  go  mad,  though  he  felt  that 
he  could  not  bear  the  strain  much  longer. 

As  the  afternoon  light  faded  from  his  chamber  he 
dropped  the  pencil  and  paper  with  which  he  had  been 
working  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair.  His  face  was 
haggard  and  drawn,  and  sleepless  nights  had  made  dark 
circles  about  his  deep-set  eyes,  while  his  face,  which 
was  naturally  lean,  had  grown  suddenly  thin  and  hollow. 
He  was  indeed  one  of  the  most  unhappy  men  in  Rome 
that  day,  and  so  far  as  he  could  see  his  misery  had  fallen 
upon  him  through  no  fault  of  his  own.  It  would  have 
been  a  blessed  relief,  could  he  have  accused  himself  of 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  207 

injustice,  or  of  any  misdeed  which  might  throw  the 
weight  and  responsibility  of  Corona's  actions  back  upon 
his  own  soul.  He  loved  her  still  so  well  that  he  could 
have  imagined  nothing  sweeter  than  to  throw  himself  at 
her  feet  and  cry  aloud  that  it  was  he  who  had  sinned  and 
not  she.  He  tortured  his  imagination  for  a  means  of 
proving  that  she  might  be  innocent.  But  it  was  in  vain. 
The  chain  of  circumstantial  evidence  was  complete  and  not 
a  link  was  missing,  not  one  point  uncertain.  He  would 
have  given  her  the  advantage  of  any  doubt  which  could 
be  thought  to  exist,  but  the  longer  he  thought  of  it  all, 
the  more  sure  he  grew  that  there  was  no  doubt  whatever. 

He  sat  quite  still  until  it  was  nearly  dark,  and  then 
with  a  sudden  and  angry  movement  quite  unlike  him, 
he  sprang  to  his  feet  and  left  the  room.  Solitude  was 
growing  unbearable  to  him,  and  though  he  cared  little  to 
see  any  of  his  associates,  the  mere  presence  of  other  living 
beings  would,  he  thought,  be  better  than  nothing.  He 
was  about  to  go  out  of  the  house  when  he  met  the  doctor 
coming  from  Corona's  apartments. 

"I  do  not  wish  to  cause  you  unnecessary  pain,"  said 
the  physician,  "  but  I  think  it  would  be  better  that  you 
should  see  the  princess." 

"  Has  she  asked  for  me?  "  inquired  Giovanni,  gloomily. 

"No.     But  I  think  you  ought  to  see  her." 

"Is  she  dying?"  Sant'  Ilario  spoke  under  his  breath 
and  laid  his  hand  on  the  doctor's  arm. 

"  Pray  be  calm,  Signor  Principe.  I  did  not  say  that. 
But  I  repeat " 

"  Be  good  enough  to  say  what  you  mean  without  rep 
etition,"  answered  Giovanni  almost  savagely. 

The  physician's  face  flushed  with  annoyance,  but  as 
Giovanni  was  such  a  very  high  and  mighty  personage  he 
controlled  his  anger  and  replied  as  calmly  as  he  could. 

"  The  princess  is  not  dying.  But  she  is  very  ill.  She 
may  be  worse  before  morning.  You  had  better  see  her 
now,  for  she  will  know  you.  Later  she  may  not." 

Without  waiting  for  more  Giovanni  turned  on  his  heel 
and  strode  towards  his  wife's  room.  Passing  through 
an  outer  chamber  he  saw  one  of  her  women  sitting  in  a 
corner  and  shedding  copious  tears. 

She  looked  up  and  pointed  to  the  door  in  a  helpless 


208  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

fashion.  In  another  moment  Giovanni  was  at  Corona's 
bedside. 

He  would  not  have  recognised  her.  Her  face  was 
wasted  and  white,  and  looked  ghastly  by  contrast  with 
the  masses  of  her  black  hair  which  were  spread  over  the 
broad  pillow.  Her  colourless  lips  were  parted  and  a 
little  drawn,  and  her  breath  came  faintly.  Only  her 
eyes  retained  the  expression  of  life,  seeming  larger  and 
more  brilliant  than  he  had  ever  seen  them  before. 

Giovanni  gazed  on  her  in  horror  for  several  seconds. 
In  his  imagination  he  had  supposed  that  she  would  look 
as  when  he  had  seen  her  last,  and  the  shock  of  seeing  her 
as  she  was,  unstrung  his  nerves.  For  an  instant  he  for 
got  everything  that  was  past  in  the  one  strong  passion 
that  dominated  him  in  spite  of  himself.  His  arms  went 
round  her  and  amidst  his  blinding  tears  he  showered  hot 
kisses  on  her  death-like  face.  With  a  supreme  effort, 
for  she  was  so  weak  as  to  be  almost  powerless,  she  clasped 
her  hands  about  his  neck  and  pressed  her  to  him,  or  he 
pressed  her.  The  embrace  lasted  but  a  moment  and  her 
arms  fell  again  like  lead. 

"You  know  the  truth  at  last,  Giovanni,"  she  said, 
feebly.  "You  know  that  I  am  innocent  or  you  would 
not " 

He  did  not  know  whether  her  voice  failed  her  from 
weakness,  or  whether  she  was  hesitating.  He  felt  as 
though  she  had  driven  a  sharp  weapon  into  his  breast  by 
recalling  all  that  separated  them.  He  drew  back  a  little, 
and  his  face  darkened. 

What  could  he  do?  She  was  dying  and  it  would  be 
diabolically  cruel  to  undeceive  her.  In  that  moment  he 
would  have  given  his  soul  to  be  able  to  lie,  to  put  on 
again  the  expression  that  was  in  his  face  when  he  had 
kissed  her  a  moment  before.  But  the  suffering  of  which 
she  reminded  him  was  too  great,  the  sin  too  enormous, 
and  though  he  tried  bravely  he  could  not  succeed.  But 
he  made  the  effort.  He  tried  to  smile,  and  the  attempt 
was  horrible.  He  spoke,  but  there  was  no  life  in  his 
words. 

"Yes,  dear,"  he  said,  though  the  words  choked  him 
like  hot  dust,  "  I  know  it  was  all  a  mistake.  How  can  I 
ever  ask  your  forgiveness?" 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  209 

Corona  saw  that  it  was  not  the  truth,  and  with  a 
despairing  cry  she  turned  away  and  hid  her  face  in  the 
pillow.  Giovanni  felt  an  icy  chill  of  horror  descending 
to  his  heart.  A  more  terrible  moment  could  scarcely  be 
imagined.  There  he  stood  beside  his  dying  wife,  the 
conviction  of  her  sin  burnt  in  upon  his  heart,  but  loving 
her  fiercely  still,  willing  in  that  supreme  crisis  to  make 
her  think  she  was  forgiven,  striving  to  tell  the  kind  lie 
that  nevertheless  would  not  be  told,  powerless  to  deceive 
her  who  had  so  horribly  betrayed  him. 

Once  more  he  bent  over  her  and  laid  his  hand  on  hers. 
The  touch  of  her  wasted  fingers  brought  the  tears  to  his 
eyes  again,  but  the  moment  of  passion  was  past.  He 
bent  down  and  would  have  comforted  her  had  he  known 
how,  but  not  a  word  would  form,  itself  upon  his  lips. 
Her  face  was  turned  away  and  he  could  see  that  she  was 
determined  not  to  look  at  him.  Only  now  and  then  a 
passionate  sob  shook  her  and  made  her  tremble,  like  a 
thing  of  little  weight  shaken  by  the  wind. 

Giovanni  could  bear  it  no  longer.  Once  more  he 
kissed  her  heavy  hair  and  then  quickly  went  out,  he 
knew  not  whither.  When  he  realised  what  he  was  doing 
he  found  himself  leaning  against  a  damp  wall  in  the 
street.  He  pulled  himself  together  and  walked  away  at 
a  brisk  pace,  trying  to  find  some  relief  in  rapid  motion. 
He  never  knew  how  far  he  walked  that  night,  haunted 
by  the  presence  of  Corona's  deathly  face  and  by  the 
sound  of  that  despairing  cry  which  he  had  no  power  to 
check.  He  went  on  and  on,  challenged  from  time  to  time 
by  the  sentinels  to  whom  he  mechanically  showed  his 
pass.  Striding  up  hill  and  down  through  the  highways 
and  through  the  least  frequented  streets  of  the  city,  it 
was  all  the  same  to  him  in  his  misery,  and  he  had  no 
consciousness  of  what  he  saw  or  heard.  At  eight  o'clock 
in  the  evening  he  was  opposite  Saint  Peter's;  at  mid 
night  he  was  standing  alone  at  the  desolate  cross-roads 
before  Santa  Croce  in  Gerusalemme,  beyond  the  Lateran, 
and  only  just  within  the  walls.  From  place  to  place  he 
wandered,  feeling  no  fatigue,  but  only  a  burning  fever 
in  his  head  and  an  icy  chill  in  his  heart.  Sometimes  he 
would  walk  up  and  down  some  broad  square  twenty  or 
thirty  times ;  then  again  he  followed  a  long  thoroughfare 


210  SANT'  ILARIO. 

throughout  its  whole  length,  and  retraced  his  steps  with 
out  seeing  that  he  passed  twice  through  the  same  street. 

At  last  he  found  himself  in  a  great  crowd  of  people. 
Had  he  realised  that  it  was  nearly  three  o'clock  in  the 
morning  the  presence  of  such  a  concourse  would  have 
astonished  him.  But  if  he  was  not  actually  ill  and  out 
of  his  mind,  he  was  at  all  events  in  such  a  confused  state 
that  he  did  not  even  ask  himself  what  was  the  meaning 
of  the  demonstration. 

The  tramp  of  inarching  troops  recalled  the  thought  of 
Gouache,  and  suddenly  he  understood  what  was  happen 
ing.  The  soldiers  were  leaving  Rome  to  attack  the 
Garibaldians,  and  he  was  near  one  of  the  gates.  By  the 
light  of  flaring  torches  he  recognised  at  some  distance 
the  hideous  architecture  of  the  Porta  Pia.  He  caught 
sight  of  the  Zouave  uniform  under  the  glare  and  pressed 
forward  instinctively,  trying  to  see  the  faces  of  the  men. 
But  the  crowd  was  closely  packed  and  he  could  not  obtain 
a  view,  try  as  he  might,  and  the  darkness  was  so  thick 
that  the  torches  only  made  the  air  darker  around  them. 

He  listened  to  the  tramp  of  feet  and  the  ring  of  steel 
arms  and  accoutrements  like  a  man  in  an  evil  dream. 
Instead  of  passing  quickly,  the  time  now  seemed  inter 
minable,  for  he  was  unable  to  move,  and  the  feeling  that 
among  those  thousands  of  moving  soldiers  there  was  per 
haps  that  one  man  for  whose  blood  he  thirsted,  was 
intolerable.  At  last  the  tramping  died  away  in  the  dis 
tance  and  the  crowd  loosened  itself  and  began  to  break 
up.  Giovanni  was  carried  with  the  stream,  and  once 
more  it  became  indifferent  to  him  whither  he  went.  All 
at  once  he  was  aware  of  a  very  tall  man  who  walked 
beside  him,  a  man  so  large  that  he  looked  up,  sure  that 
the  giant  could  be  none  but  his  cousin  San  Giacinto. 

"Are  you  here,  too?"  asked  the  latter  in  a  friendly 
voice,  as  he  recognised  Giovanni  by  the  light  of  a  lamp, 
under  which  they  were  passing. 

"I  came  to  see  them  off,"  replied  Sant'  Ilario,  coldly. 
It  seemed  to  him  as  though  nis  companion  must  have 
followed  him. 

"  So  did  I, "  said  San  Giacinto.  "  I  heard  the  news  late 
last  night,  and  only  lay  down  for  an  hour  or  two. " 

"What  time  is  it?"  asked  Giovanni,  who  supposed  it 
was  about  midnight. 


SANT*   ILARIO. 

"Five  o'clock.  It  will  be  daylight,  or  dawn  at  least, 
in  an  hour." 

Giovanni  was  silent,  wondering  absently  where  he  had 
been  all  night.  For  some  time  the  two  walked  on  with 
out  speaking. 

"  You  had  better  come  and  have  coffee  with  me, "  said 
San  Giacinto  as  they  passed  through  the  Piazza  Barbarini. 
"  I  made  my  man  get  up  so  that  I  might  have  some  as 
soon  as  I  got  home." 

Giovanni  assented.  The  presence  of  some  one  with 
whom  he  could  speak  made  him  realise  that  he  was 
almost  exhausted  for  want  of  food.  It  was  morning, 
and  he  had  eaten  nothing  since  the  preceding  midday, 
and  little  enough  then.  In  a  few  minutes  they  reached 
San  Giacinto's  lodging.  There  was  a  lamp  burning 
brightly  on  the  table  of  the  sitting-room,  and  a  little  fire 
was  smouldering  on  the  hearth.  Giovanni  sank  into  a 
chair,  worn  out  with  hunger  and  fatigue,  while  the  ser 
vant  brought  the  coffee  and  set  it  on  the  table. 

"You  look  tired,"  remarked  San  Giacinto.  "One 
lump  or  two?  " 

Giovanni  drank  the  beverage  without  tasting  it,  but  it 
revived  him,  and  the  warmth  of  the  room  comforted  his 
chilled  and  tired  limbs.  He  did  not  notice  that  San 
Giacinto  was  looking  hard  at  him,  wondering  indeed 
what  could  have  produced  so  strange  an  alteration  in  his 
appearance  and  manner. 

"How  is  the  princess?"  asked  the  big  man  in  a  tone 
of  sympathy  as  he  slowly  stirred  the  sugar  in  his  coffee. 

"Thank  you  —  she  is  very  well,"  answered  Giovanni, 
mechanically.  In  his  mind  the  secret  which  he  must 
conceal  was  so  closely  connected  with  Corona's  illness 
that  he  almost  unconsciously  included  her  state  among 
the  things  of  which  he  would  not  speak.  But  San  Gia 
cinto  looked  sharply  at  him,  wondering  what  he  meant. 

"Indeed?     I  thought  she  was  very  ill." 

"So  she  is,"  replied  Sant'  Ilario,  bluntly.  "I  forgot 
—  I  do  not  know  what  I  was  thinking  of.  I  fear  she  is 
in  a  very  dangerous  condition." 

He  was  silent  again,  and  sat  leaning  upon  the  table 
absently  looking  at  the  objects  that  lay  before  him,  an 
open  portfolio  and  writing  materials,  a  bit  of  sealing- 


212  SANT'  ILARIO. 

wax,  a  small  dictionary,  neatly  laid  in  order  upon  the 
dark  red  cloth.  He  did  not  know  why  he  had  allowed 
himself  to  be  led  to  the  place,  but  he  felt  a  sense  of  rest 
in  sitting  there  quietly  in  silence.  San  Giacinto  saw 
that  there  was  something  wrong  and  said  nothing,  but 
lighted  a  black  cigar  and  smoked  thoughtfully. 

"  You  look  as  though  you  had  been  up  all  night, "  he 
remarked  after  a  long  pause. 

Giovanni  did  not  answer.  His  eyes  did  not  look  up 
from  the  red  blotting-paper  in  the  open  portfolio  before 
him.  As  he  looked  down  San  Giacinto  almost  believed 
he  was  asleep,  and  shook  the  table  a  little  to  see  whether 
his  cousin  would  notice  it.  Instantly  Giovanni  laid  his 
hand  upon  the  writing  book,  to  steady  it  before  him. 
But  still  he  did  not  look  up. 

"You  seem  to  be  interested,"  said  San  Giacinto,  with 
a  smile,  and  he  blew  a  cloud  of  smoke  into  the  air. 

Giovanni  was  indeed  completely  absorbed  in  his  studies, 
and  only  nodded  his  head  in  answer.  After  a  few  min 
utes  more  he  rose  and  took  the  portfolio  to  a  dingy  mirror 
that  stood  over  the  chimney-piece  of  the  lodging,  and 
held  up  the  sheet  of  red  blotting-paper  before  the  reflect 
ing  surface.  Apparently  not  satisfied  with  this,  he 
brought  the  lamp  and  set  it  upon  the  shelf,  and  then 
repeated  the  process. 

"You  are  an  infernal  scoundrel,"  he  said  in  a  low 
voice,  that  trembled  with  wrath,  as  he  turned  and  faced 
San  Giacinto. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  inquired  the  latter  with  a 
calmness  that  would  have  staggered  a  less  angry  man. 

Giovanni  drew  from  his  pocket-book  the  note  he  had 
found  in  Gouache's  room.  For  a  week  he  had  kept  it 
about  him.  Without  paying  any  further  attention  to 
San  Giacinto  he  held  it  in  one  hand  and  again  placed 
the  blotting-paper  in  front  of  the  mirror.  The  impres 
sion  of  the  writing  corresponded  exactly  with  the  origi 
nal.  As  it  consisted  of  but  a  very  few  words  and  had 
been  written  quickly,  almost  every  stroke  had  been 
reproduced  upon  the  red  paper  in  a  reversed  facsimile. 
Giovanni  brought  the  two  and  held  them  before  San 
Giacinto's  eyes.  The  latter  looked  surprised  but  did  not 
betray  the  slightest  fear. 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  213 

"  Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  did  not  write  this 
note?"  asked  Giovanni,  savagely. 

"  Of  course  I  wrote  it, "  replied  the  other  coolly. 

Giovanni's  teeth  chattered  with  rage.  He  dropped 
the  portfolio  and  the  letter  and  seized  his  cousin  by  the 
throat,  burying  his  fingers  in  the  tough  flesh  with  the 
ferocity  of  a  wild  animal.  He  was  very  strong  and 
active  and  had  fallen  upon  his  adversary  unawares,  so 
that  he  had  an  additional  advantage.  But  for  all  that 
he  was  no  match  for  his  cousin's  giant  strength.  San 
Giacinto  sprang  to  his  feet  and  his  great  hands  took  hold 
of  Giovanni's  arms  above  the  elbow,  lifting  him  from  the 
ground  and  shaking  him  in  the  air  as  easily  as  a  cat 
worries  a  mouse.  Then  he  thrust  him  into  his  chair 
again  and  stood  holding  him  so  that  he  could  not  move. 

"I  do  not  want  to  hurt  you,"  he  said,  "but  I  do  not 
like  to  be  attacked  in  this  way.  If  you  try  it  again  I 
will  break  some  of  your  bones." 

Giovanni  was  so  much  astonished  at  finding  himself 
so  easily  overmatched  that  he  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
The  ex-innkeeper  relinquished  his  hold  and  picked  up 
his  cigar,  which  had  fallen  in  the  struggle. 

"I  do  not  propose  to  wrestle  with  you  for  a  match," 
said  Giovanni  at  last.  "You  are  stronger  than  I,  but 
there  are  other  weapons  than  those  of  brute  strength.  I 
repeat  that  you  are  an  infernal  scoundrel." 

"You  may  repeat  it  as  often  as  you  please,"  replied 
San  Giacinto,  who  had  recovered  his  composure  with 
marvellous  rapidity.  "  It  does  not  hurt  me  at  all. " 

"Then  you  are  a  contemptible  coward,"  cried  Gio 
vanni,  hotly. 

"  That  is  not  true,"  said  the  other.  "  I  never  ran  away 
in  my  life.  Perhaps  I  have  not  much  reason  to  avoid  a 
fight,"  he  added,  looking  down  at  his  huge  limbs  with  a 
smile. 

Giovanni  did  not  know  what  to  do.  He  had  never  had 
a  quarrel  with  a  man  who  was  able  to  break  his  neck, 
but  who  would  not  fight  like  a  gentleman.  He  grew 
calmer,  and  could  have  laughed  at  the  situation  had  it 
been  brought  about  by  any  other  cause. 

"Look  here,  cousin,"  said  San  Giacinto,  suddenly  and 
in  a  familiar  tone,  "  I  am  as  good  a  gentleman  as  you, 


214  SANT'  ILARIO. 

though  I  have  kept  an  inn.  If  it  is  the  custom  here  to 
play  with  swords  and  such  toys  I  will  take  a  few  lessons 
and  we  will  have  it  out.  But  I  confess  that  I  would  like 
to  know  why  you  are  so  outrageously  angry.  How  did 
you  come  by  that  letter?  It  was  never  meant  for  you, 
nor  for  any  of  yours.  I  pinned  it  upon  Gouache's  dress 
ing-table  with  a  pin  I  found  there.  I  took  the  paper 
from  your  wife's  table  a  week  ago  yesterday.  If  you 
want  to  know  all  about  it  I  will  tell  you." 

"And  whom  did  you  intend  for  the  author  of  the 
letter?  Whom  but  my  wife?  " 

"  Your  wife !  "  cried  San  Giacinto  in  genuine  astonish 
ment.  "You  are  out  of  your  mind.  Gouache  was  to 
meet  Faustina  Montevarchi  on  Sunday  morning  at  a 
church,  and  I  invented  the  note  to  prevent  the  meeting, 
and  put  it  on  his  table  during  the  previous  afternoon. 
I  am  going  to  marry  Donna  Flavia,  and  I  do  not  mean  to 
allow  a  beggarly  Zouave  to  make  love  to  my  future  sister- 
in-law.  Since  you  took  the  note  they  must  have  met 
after  all.  I  wish  you  had  left  it  alone." 

Giovanni  sank  into  a  chair  before  the  table  and  buried 
his  face  in  his  hands.  San  Giacinto  stood  looking  at 
him  in  silence,  beginning  to  comprehend  what  had  hap 
pened,  and  really  distressed  that  his  comparatively 
harmless  stratagem  should  have  caused  so  much  trouble. 
He  looked  at  things  from  a  lower  point  of  view  than 
Giovanni,  but  he  was  a  very  human  man,  after  all.  It 
was  hard  for  him  to  believe  that  his  cousin  could  have 
really  supected  Corona  of  loving  Gouache;  but  Giovanni's 
behaviour  left  no  other  explanation.  On  the  other  hand, 
he  felt  that  whatever  might  be  thought  of  his  own  part 
in  the  affair,  it  was  Giovanni's  own  fault  that  things 
had  turned  out  as  they  had,  seeing  that  he  had  been 
guilty  of  a  very  serious  indiscretion  in  entering  Gouache's 
rooms  unbidden  and  in  reading  what  was  meant  for  the 
Zouave. 

Giovanni  rose  and  his  face  was  pale  again,  but  the 
expression  had  utterly  changed  in  the  course  of  a  few 
seconds.  He  suffered  horribly,  but  with  a  pain  more 
easy  to  bear  than  that  which  had  tortured  him  during 
the  past  week.  Corona  was  innocent,  and  he  knew  it. 
Every  word  she  had  spoken  a  week  ago,  when  he  had 


SANT'  ILARIO.  215 

accused  her,  rang  again  in  his  ears,  and  as  though  by 
magic  the  truth  of  her  statement  was  now  as  clear  as  the 
day.  He  could  never  forgive  himself  for  having  doubted 
her.  He  did  not  know  whether  he  could  ever  atone  for 
the  agony  he  must  have  caused  her.  But  it  was  a  thou 
sand  times  better  that  he  should  live  long  years  of  bitter 
self-reproach,  than  that  the  woman  he  so  loved  should 
have  fallen.  He  forgot  San  Giacinto  and  the  petty 
scheme  which  had  brought  about  such  dire  consequences. 
He  forgot  his  anger  of  a  moment  ago  in  the  supreme  joy 
of  knowing  that  Corona  had  not  sinned,  and  in  the  bitter 
contrition  for  having  so  terribly  wronged  her.  If  he 
felt  anything  towards  San  Giacinto  it  was  gratitude,  but 
he  stood  speechless  under  his  great  emotion,  not  even 
thinking  what  he  should  say. 

"  If  you  doubt  the  truth  of  my  explanation, "  said  San 
Giacinto,  "go  to  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi.  Opposite 
the  entrance  you  will  see  some  queer  things  painted  on 
the  wall.  There  are  Gouache's  initials  scrawled  a  hun 
dred  times,  and  the  words  'Sunday'  and  'Mass'  very 
conspicuous.  A  simple  way,  too,  would  be  to  ask  him 
whether  he  did  not  actually  meet  Faustina  last  Sunday 
morning.  When  a  man  advertises  his  meetings  with  his 
lady-love  on  the  walls  of  the  city,  no  one  can  be  blamed 
for  reading  the  advertisement." 

He  laughed  at  the  conceit  and  at  his  own  astuteness; 
but  Giovanni  scarcely  heeded  him  or  his  words. 

"  Good-bye, "  said  the  latter,  holding  out  his  hand. 

"You  do  not  want  to  fight  any  more,  then?"  asked 
San  Giacinto. 

"Not  unless  you  do.     Good-bye." 

Without  another  word  he  left  the  room  and  descended 
into  the  street.  The  cold  gray  dawn  was  over  everything 
and  the  air  was  raw  and  chilly.  There  is  nothing  more 
dismal  than  early  dawn  in  a  drizzling  rain  when  a  man 
has  been  up  all  night,  but  Giovanni  was  unconscious  of 
any  discomfort,  and  there  were  wings  under  his  feet  as 
he  hastened  homeward  along  the  slippery  pavements. 

The  pallor  in  his  face  had  given  way  to  a  slight  flush 
that  gave  colour  and  animation  to  his  cheeks,  and  though 
his  eyes  were  bright  their  expression  was  more  natural 
than  it  had  been  for  many  days.  He  was  in  one  of  the 


216  SANT'  ILARIO. 

strangest  humours  which  can  have  sway  over  that  uncon 
sciously  humorous  animal,  man.  In  the  midst  of  the 
deepest  self-abasement  his  heart  was  overflowing  with 
joy.  The  combination  of  sorrow  and  happiness  is  a  rare 
one,  not  found  every  day,  but  the  condition  of  experienc 
ing  both  at  the  same  time  and  in  the  highest  degree  is 
very  possible. 

Giovanni,  indeed,  could  not  feel  otherwise  than  he 
did.  Had  he  suspected  Corona  and  accused  her  on 
grounds  wholly  frivolous  and  untenable,  in  the  unreason 
ing  outbreak  of  a  foolish  jealousy,  he  could  not  have 
been  so  persuaded  of  her  guilt  as  to  feel  the  keenest  joy 
on  finding  her  innocent.  In  that  case  his  remorse  would 
have  outweighed  his  satisfaction.  Had  he,  on  the  other 
hand,  suspected  her  without  making  the  accusation,  he 
would  have  been  happy  on  discovering  his  mistake,  but 
could  have  felt  little  or  no  remorse.  As  it  was,  he  had 
accused  her  upon  evidence  which  most  tribunals  would 
have  thought  sufficient  for  a  conviction,  and  on  seeing  all 
doubt  cleared  away  he  realised  with  terrible  force  the 
extent  of  the  pain  he  had  inflicted.  While  he  had  still 
believed  that  she  had  fallen,  he  had  still  so  loved  her  as 
to  wish  that  he  could  take  the  burden  of  her  guilt  upon 
his  own  shoulders.  Now  that  her  innocence  was  proved 
beyond  all  doubt,  he  had  no  thought  but  to  ask  her  for 
giveness. 

He  let  himself  in  with  a  latch-key  and  ran  up  the  dim 
stairs.  A  second  key  opened  the  polished  door  into  the 
dark  vestibule,  and  in  a  moment  more  he  was  in  the 
ante-chamber  of  Corona's  apartment.  Two  or  three 
women,  pale  with  watching,  were  standing  round  a  table, 
upon  which  something  was  heating  over  a  spirit  lamp. 
Giovanni  stopped  and  spoke  to  them. 

"How  is  she?"  he  asked,  his  voice  unsteady  with 
anxiety. 

The  women  shook  their  heads,  and  one  of  them  began 
to  cry.  They  loved  their  mistress  dearly  and  had  little 
hope  of  her  recovery.  They  had  been  amazed,  too,  at 
Giovanni's  apparent  indifference  during  the  whole  week, 
and  seemed  surprised  when  he  went  towards  the  door. 
One  motioned  to  him  to  make  no  noise.  He  turned  the 
latch  very  gently  and  advanced  into  the  darkened  cham 
ber. 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  217 

Corona  was  lying  as  he  had  seen  her  on  the  previous 
evening,  and  there  seemed  to  be  little  or  no  change  in 
her  state.  Her  eyes  were  closed  and  her  breathing  was 
scarcely  perceptible.  A  nurse  was  nodding  in  a  chair 
near  the  night  light  and  looked  up  as  Giovanni  entered. 
He  pointed  to  the  door  and  she  went  out.  All  was  so 
exactly  as  it  had  been  twelve  hours  earlier  that  he  could 
hardly  realise  the  immense  change  that  had  taken  place 
in  his  own  heart  during  the  interval.  He  stood  looking 
at  his  wife,  scarcely  breathing  for  fear  of  disturbing  her 
and  yet  wishing  that  she  might  wake  to  hear  what  he 
had  to  say.  But  she  did  not  move  nor  show  any  signs 
of  consciousness.  Her  delicate,  thin  hand  lay  upon  the 
coverlet.  He  stooped  down  very  slowly  and  cautiously, 
and  kissed  the  wasted  fingers.  Then  he  drew  back 
quickly  and  noiselessly  as  though  he  had  done  something 
wrong.  He  thought  she  must  be  asleep,  and  sat  down  in 
the  chair  the  nurse  had  vacated.  The  stillness  was  pro 
found.  The  little  night  light  burned  steadily  without 
flickering  and  cast  queer  long  shadows  from  the  floor 
upwards  over  the  huge  tapestries  upon  the  wall.  The 
quaint  figures  of  heroes  and  saints,  that  had  seen  many 
a  Saracinesca  born  and  many  a  one  die  in  the  ancient 
vaulted  room,  seemed  to  take  the  expressions  of  old 
friends  watching  over  the  suffering  woman.  A  faint 
odour  like  that  of  ether  pervaded  the  still  air,  an  odour 
Giovanni  never  forgot  during  his  life.  Everything  was 
so  intensely  quiet  that  he  almost  thought  he  could  hear 
the  ticking  of  his  watch  in  his  pocket. 

Corona  stirred  at  last,  and  slowly  opening  her  eyes, 
turned  them  gradually  till  they  met  her  husband's  gaze. 
At  the  first  movement  she  made  he  had  risen  to  his  feet 
and  now  stood  close  beside  her. 

"Did  you  kiss  my  hand  —  or  did  I  dream  it?"  she 
asked  faintly. 

"Yes,  darling."  He  could  not  at  once  find  words  to 
say  what  he  wanted. 

"  Why  did  you?" 

Giovanni  fell  on  his  knees  by  the  bedside  and  took  her 
hand  in  both  his  own. 

"  Corona,  Corona  —  forgive  me !  "  The  cry  came  from 
his  heart,  and  was  uttered  with  an  accent  of  despair  that 


218  SANT'  ILARIO. 

there  was  no  mistaking.  She  knew,  faint  and  scarcely 
conscious  though  she  was,  that  he  was  not  attempting  to 
deceive  her  this  time.  But  he  could  say  no  more. 
Many  a  strong  man  would  in  that  moment  have  sobbed 
aloud  and  shed  tears,  but  Giovanni  was  not  as  other  men. 
Under  great  emotion  all  expression  was  hard  for  him, 
and  the  spontaneity  of  tears  would  have  contradicted  his 
nature. 

Corona  wondered  what  had  happened,  and  lay  quite 
still,  looking  at  his  bent  head  and  feeling  the  trembling 
touch  of  his  hands  on  hers.  For  several  seconds  the 
stillness  was  almost  as  profound  as  it  had  been  before. 
Then  Giovanni  spoke  out  slowly  and  earnestly. 

"My  beloved  wife,"  he  said,  looking  up  into  her  face, 
"  I  know  all  the  truth  now.  I  know  what  I  have  done. 
I  know  what  you  have  suffered.  Forgive  me  if  you  can. 
I  will  give  my  whole  life  to  deserve  your  pardon." 

For  an  instant  all  Corona's  beauty  returned  to  her  face 
as  she  heard  his  words.  Her  eyes  shone  softly,  the 
colour  mounted  to  her  pale  cheeks,  and  she  breathed  one 
happy  sigh  of  relief  and  gladness.  Her  fingers  contracted 
and  closed  round  his  with  a  tender  pressure. 

"It  is  true,"  she  said,  scarcely  audibly.  "You  are  not 
trying  to  deceive  me  in  order  to  keep  me  alive  ?  " 

"It  is  true,  darling,"  he  answered.  "San  Giacinto 
wrote  the  letter.  It  was  not  even  meant  to  seem  to  come 
from  you.  Oh,  Corona  —  can  you  ever  forgive  me?" 

She  turned  so  as  to  see  him  better,  and  looked  long 
into  his  eyes.  The  colour  slowly  faded  again  from  her 
face,  and  her  expression  changed,  growing  suddenly  sad. 

"  I  will  forgive  you.  I  will  try  to  forget  it  all,  Gio 
vanni.  You  should  have  believed  me,  for  I  have  never 
lied  to  you.  It  will  be  long  before  I  am  strong  again, 
and  I  shall  have  much  time  to  think  of  it." 

Giovanni  rose  to  his  feet,  still  clasping  her  hand. 
Something  told  him  that  she  was  not  a  woman  who  could 
either  forgive  or  forget  such  an  injury,  and  her  tone  was 
colder  than  he  had  hoped.  The  expiation  had  begun 
and  he  was  already  suffering  the  punishment  of  his 
unbelief.  He  bore  the  pain  bravely.  What  right  had 
he  to  expect  that  she  would  suddenly  become  as  she  had 
been  before?  She  had  been,  and  still  was,  dangerously 


SANT'  ILARIO.  219 

ill,  and  her  illness  had  been  caused  by  his  treatment  of 
her.  It  would  be  long  before  their  relations  could  be 
again  what  they  had  once  been,  and  it  was  not  for  him 
to  complain.  She  might  have  sent  him  away  in  anger; 
he  would  not  have  thought  her  too  unkind.  But  when 
he  remembered  her  love,  he  trembled  at  the  thought  of 
living  without  it.  His  voice  was  very  gentle  as  he 
answered  her,  after  a  short  pause. 

"You  shall  live  to  forget  it  all,  Corona.  I  will  make 
you  forget  it.  I  will  undo  what  I  have  done." 

"Can  you,  Giovanni?  Is  there  no  blood  upon  your 
hands?"  She  knew  her  husband  well,  and  could  hardly 
believe  that  he  had  refrained  from  taking  vengeance 
upon  Gouache. 

"There  is  none,  thank  God,"  replied  Giovanni.  "But 
for  a  happy  accident  I  should  have  killed  the  man  a 
week  ago.  It  was  all  arranged. " 

"  You  must  tell  him  that  you  have  been  mistaken, " 
said  Corona  simply. 

"Yes,  I  will."  ' 

"  Thank  you.     That  is  right. " 

"It  is  the  least  I  can  do." 

Giovanni  felt  that  words  were  of  very  little  use,  and 
even  had  he  wished  to  say  more  he  would  not  have  known 
how  to  speak.  There  was  that  between  them  which  was 
too  deep  for  all  expression,  and  he  knew  that  henceforth 
he  could  only  hope  to  bring  back  Corona's  love  by  his  own 
actions.  Besides,  in  her  present  state,  he  guessed  that  it 
would  be  wiser  to  leave  her,  than  to  prolong  the  interview. 

"I  will  go  now,"  he  said.  "You  must  rest,  darling, 
and  be  quite  well  to-morrow." 

"Yes.     I  can  rest  now." 

She  said  nothing  about  seeing  him  again.  With  a 
humility  almost  pathetic  in  such  a  man,  he  bent  down 
and  touched  her  hand  with  his  lips.  Then  he  would 
have  gone  away,  but  she  held  his  fingers  and  looked  long 
into  his  eyes. 

"  I  am  sorry  for  you,  dear, "  she  said,  and  paused,  not 
taking  her  eyes  from  his.  "Kiss  me,"  she  added  at 
last,  with  a  faint  smile. 

A  moment  later,  he  was  gone.  She  gazed  long  at  the 
door  through  which  he  had  left  the  room,  and  her  expres- 


220  SANT'  ILARIO. 

• 

sion  changed  more  than  once,  softening  and  hardening 
again  as  the  thoughts  chased  each  other  through  her 
tired  brain.  At  last  she  closed  her  eyes,  and  presently 
fell  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 

Giovanni  waited  in  his  room  until  his  father  was 
awake  and  then  went  to  tell  him  what  had  happened. 
The  old  gentleman  looked  weary  and  sad,  but  his  keen 
sight  noticed  the  change  in  his  son's  manner. 

"You  look  better,"  he  said. 

"I  have  been  undeceived,"  answered  Giovanni.  "I 
have  been  mistaken,  misled  by  the  most  extraordinary 
set  of  circumstances  I  have  ever  heard  of." 

Saracinesca's  eyes  suddenly  gleamed  angrily  and  his 
white  beard  bristled  round  his  face. 

"You  have  made  a  fool  of  yourself,"  he  growled. 
"  You  have  made  your  wife  ill  and  yourself  miserable  in 
a  fit  of  vulgar  jealousy.  And  now  you  have  been  telling 
her  so." 

"Exactly.     I  have  been  telling  her  so." 

"  You  are  an  idiot,  Giovanni.     I  always  knew  it. " 

"  I  have  only  just  found  it  out, "  answered  the  younger 
man. 

"  Then  you  are  amazingly  slow  at  discovery.  Why  do 
you  stand  there  staring  at  me?  Do  you  expect  any 
sympathy?  You  will  not  get  it.  Go  and  say  a  litany 
outside  your  wife's  door.  You  have  made  me  spend  the 
most  horrible  week  I  ever  remember,  just  because  you 
are  not  good  enough  for  her.  How  could  you  ever  dare 
to  suspect  that  woman?  Go  away.  I  shall  strangle 
you  if  you  stay  here !  " 

"That  consideration  would  not  have  much  weight," 
replied  Giovanni.  "  I  know  how  mad  I  have  been,  much 
better  than  you  can  tell  me.  And  yet,  I  doubt  whether 
any  one  was  ever  so  strangely  mistaken  before." 

"  With  your  intelligence  the  wonder  is  that  you  are  not 
always  mistaken.  Upon  my  soul,  the  more  I  think  of 
it,  the  more  I  am  amazed  at  your  folly.  You  acted  like 
a  creature  in  the  theatre.  With  your  long  face  and  your 
mystery  and  your  stage  despair,  you  even  made  a  fool  of 
me.  At  all  events,  I  shall  know  what  to  expect  the 
next  time  it  happens.  I  hope  Corona  will  have  the 
sense  to  make  you  do  penance." 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  221 

To  tell  the  truth  Giovanni  had  not  expected  any  better 
treatment  from  his  father  than  he  actually  received,  and 
he  was  not  in  a  humour  to  resent  reproaches  which  he 
knew  to  be  well  deserved.  He  had  only  intended  to  tell 
the  prince  the  result  of  what  had  occurred,  and  he  relaxed 
nothing  of  his  determination,  even  though  he  might  have 
persuaded  the  old  gentleman  that  the  accumulated  evi 
dence  had  undoubtedly  justified  his  doubts.  With  a 
short  salutation  he  left  the  room  and  went  out,  hoping 
that  Gouache  had  not  accompanied  the  expedition  to 
Montana,  improbable  as  that  seemed. 

He  was,  of  course,  disappointed,  for  while  he  was 
making  inquiries  Gouache  was  actually  on  the  way  to 
the  battle  with  his  corps,  as  has  been  already  seen. 
Giovanni  spent  most  of  the  day  in  the  house,  constantly 
inquiring  after  Corona,  and  trying  to  occupy  his  mind 
in  reading,  though  with  little  success.  The  idea  that 
Gouache  might  be  killed  without  having  learned  the  truth 
began  to  take  possession  of  him  and  caused  him  an 
annoyance  he  could  not  explain.  It  was  not  that  he 
felt  any  very  profound  remorse  for  having  wronged  the 
man.  His  nature  was  not  so  sensitive  as  that.  It  was 
rather,  perhaps,  because  he  regarded  the  explanation 
with  Anastase  as  a  part  of  what  he  owed  Corona,  that  he 
was  so  anxious  to  meet  him  alive.  Partly,  too,  his  anxiety 
arose  from  his  restlessness  and  from  the  desire  for  action 
of  some  sort  in  which  to  forget  all  he  had  suffered,  and 
all  he  was  still  suffering: 

Towards  evening  he  went  out  and  heard  news  of  the 
engagement.  It  was  already  known  that  the  enemy  had 
fallen  back  upon  Mentana,  and  no  one  doubted  the 
ultimate  result  of  the  day's  fighting.  People  were 
already  beginning  to  talk  of  going  out  to  take  assistance 
to  the  wounded.  The  idea  struck  Giovanni  as  plausible 
and  he  determined  to  act  upon  it  at  once.  He  took  a 
surgeon  and  several  men  with  him,  and  drove  out  across 
the  Campagna  to  the  scene  of  the  battle. 

As  has  been  told,  he  found  Gouache  at  last,  after  a 
long  and  difficult  search.  The  ground  was  so  broken  and 
divided  by  ditches,  walls  and  trees,  that  some  of  the 
wounded  were  not  found  until  the  middle  of  the  next  day. 
Unless  Giovanni  had  undertaken  the  search  Anastase 


222  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

might  have  escaped  notice  for  a  long  time,  and  it  was 
no  wonder  if  he  expressed  astonishment  on  waking  up  to 
find  himself  comfortably  installed  in  Saracinesca's  car 
riage,  tended  by  the  man  who  a  few  days  earlier  had 
wanted  to  take  his  life. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

Gouache's  wound  was  by  no  means  dangerous,  and 
when  he  had  somewhat  recovered  from  the  combined 
effects  of  loss  of  blood  and  excessive  fatigue  he  did  not 
feel  much  the  worse  for  having  a  ball  in  his  shoulder. 
Giovanni  and  the  doctor  gave  him  food  and  a  little  wine 
in  the  carriage,  and  long  before  they  reached  the  gates 
of  the  city  the  Zouave  was  well  enough  to  have  heard 
Sant'  Ilario's  explanation.  The  presence  of  the  surgeon, 
however,  made  any  intimate  conversation  difficult. 

"I  came  to  find  you,"  said  Giovanni  in  a  low  voice, 
"  because  everything  has  been  set  right  in  your  absence, 
and  I  was  afraid  you  might  be  killed  at  Mentana  with 
out  receiving  my  apology." 

Gouache  looked  at  his  companion  in  some  surprise. 
He  knew  very  well  that  Sant'  Ilario  was  not  a  man  to 
make  excuses  without  some  very  extraordinary  reasons 
for  such  a  step.  It  is  a  prime  law  of  the  code  of  honour, 
however,  that  an  apology  duly  made  must  be  duly  accepted 
as  putting  an  end  to  any  quarrel,  and  Anastase  saw  at  once 
that  Giovanni  had  relinquished  all  intention  of  fighting. 

"I  am  very  glad  that  everything  is  explained,"  an 
swered  Gouache.  "  I  confess  that  I  was  surprised  beyond 
measure  by  the  whole  affair." 

"I  regret  having  entered  your  rooms  without  your 
permission,"  continued  Giovanni  who  intended  to  go  to 
the  end  of  what  he  had  undertaken.  "  The  pin  was  my 
wife's,  but  the  letter  was  written  by  another  person  with 
a  view  to  influencing  your  conduct.  I  cannot  explain 
here,  but  you  shall  know  whatever  is  necessary  when  we 
are  alone.  Of  course,  if  you  still  desire  any  satisfaction, 
I  am  at  your  service." 


SANT'  ILARIO.  223 

"Pray  do  not  suggest  such  a  thing.  I  have  no  further 
feeling  of  annoyance  in  the  matter." 

Gouache  insisted  on  being  ta,ken  to  his  own  lodgings, 
though  Sant'  Ilario  offered  him  the  hospitality  of  the 
Palazzo  Saracinesca.  By  four  o'clock  in  the  morning 
the  ball  was  extracted  and  the  surgeon  took  his  leave, 
recommending  sleep  and  quiet  for  his  patient.  Gouache, 
however,  would  not  let  Giovanni  go  without  hearing  the 
end  of  the  story. 

"The  facts  are  very  few,"  said  the  latter  after  a 
moment's  hesitation.  "  It  appears  that  you  had  arranged 
to  meet  a  lady  on  Sunday  morning.  A  certain  person 
whom  I  will  not  name  discovered  your  intention,  and 
conceived  the  idea  of  preventing  the  meeting  by  sending 
you  a  note  purporting  to  come  from  the  lady.  As  he 
could  get  none  of  her  note-paper  he  possessed  himself  of 
some  of  my  wife's.  He  pinned  the  note  on  your  table 
with  the  pin  you  had  chanced  to  find.  I  was  foolish 
enough  to  enter  your  room  and  I  recognised  the  pin  and 
the  paper.  You  understand  the  rest." 

Gouache  laughed  merrily. 

"  I  understand  that  you  did  me  a  great  service.  I  met 
the  lady  after  all,  but  if  I  had  received  the  note  I  would 
not  have  gone,  and  she  would  have  waited  for  me.  Do 
you  mind  telling  me  the  name  of  the  individual  who 
tried  to  play  me  the  trick?  " 

"  If  you  will  excuse  my  discretion,  I  would  rather  not. 
He  knows  that  his  plan  failed.  I  should  not  feel  jus 
tified  in  telling  you  his  name,  from  other  motives." 

"As  you  please,"  said  Gouache.  "I  daresay  I  shall 
find  him  out." 

So  the  interview  ended  and  Giovanni  went  home  to 
rest  at  last,  almost  as  much  worn  out  as  Gouache  him 
self.  He  was  surprised  at  the  ease  with  which  every 
thing  had  been  arranged,  but  he  was  satisfied  with  the 
result  and  felt  that  a  weight  had  been  taken  from  his 
mind.  He  slept  long  and  soundly  and  awoke  the  next 
morning  to  hear  that  Corona  was  much  better. 

The  events  of  Saturday  and  Sunday  had  to  all  appear 
ances  smoothed  many  difficulties  from  the  lives  of  those 
with  whom  my  history  is  concerned.  Corona  and  Gio- 
vamii  were  once  more  united,  though  the  circumstances 


224  SANT'  ILARIO. 

tliat  had  produced  so  terrible  a  breach  between  them 
had  left  a  shadow  on  their  happiness.  Gouache  had 
fought  his  battle  and  had  returned  with  a  slight  wound, 
so  that  as  soon  as  he  could  go  out  he  would  be  able  to 
renew  his  visits  at  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi  and  see 
Faustina  without  resorting  to  any  more  ingenious  strata 
gems.  San  Giacinto  had  failed  to  produce  the  trouble 
he  had  planned,  but  his  own  prospects  were  brilliant 
enough.  His  marriage  with  Flavia  was  to  take  place  on 
the  last  of  the  month  and  the  preliminaries  were  being 
arranged  as  quickly  as  possible.  Flavia  herself  was 
delighted  with  the  new  dignity  she  assumed  in  the 
family,  and  if  she  was  not  positively  in  love  with  San 
Giacinto,  was  enough  attracted  by  him  to  look  forward 
with  pleasure  upon  the  prospect  of  becoming  his  wife. 
Old  Montevarchi  alone  seemed  preoccupied  and  silent, 
but  his  melancholy  mood  was  relieved  by  occasional 
moments  of  anticipated  triumph,  while  he  made  frequent 
visits  to  the  library  and  seemed  to  find  solace  in  the 
conversation  of  the  librarian,  Arnoldo  Meschini. 

In  the  future  of  each  of  these  persons  there  was  an 
element  of  uncertainty  which  most  of  them  disregarded. 
As  Corona  recovered,  Giovanni  began  to  think  that  she 
would  really  forget  as  well  as  forgive  all  he  had  made 
her  suffer.  Gouache  on  his  part  entertained  the  most 
sanguine  hopes  of  marrying  Faustina.  Montevarchi 
looked  forward  with  assurance  to  the  success  of  his  plot 
against  the  Saracinesca.  San  Giacinto  and  Flavia  were 
engaged,  indeed,  but  were  not  yet  married.  And  yet  the 
issue  of  none  of  these  events  was  absolutely  sure. 

The  first  matter  with  which  we  are  concerned  is  the 
forgery  of  the  clauses  in  the  documents,  which  Meschini 
had  undertaken  to  accomplish  and  actually  finished  in 
less  than  three  weeks.  It  was  indeed  an  easy  task  for  a 
man  so  highly  skilled  in  the  manufacture  of  chirograhic 
antiquities,  but  he  had  found  himself  unexpectedly  balked 
at  the  outset,  and  the  ingenuity  he  displayed  in  overcom 
ing  the  difficulties  he  met  with  is  worth  recording. 

It  was  necessary  in  the  first  place  to  ascertain  whether 
there  was  a  copy  of  the  principal  deed  at  the  Chancery. 
He  had  no  trouble  in  finding  that  such  a  copy  existed, 
and  was  indeed  fully  prepared  for  the  contingency.  But 


SANT'  ILARIO.  225 

when  the  parchment  was  produced,  his  face  fell.  It  was 
a  smaller  sheet  than  the  first  and  the  writing  was  a  little 
wider,  so  that  the  space  at  the  foot  of  the  first  page  was 
considerably  less  than  in  the  original.  He  saw  at  once 
that  it  would  be  impossible  to  make  the  insertion,  even 
if  he  could  get  possession  of  the  document  for  a  time  long 
enough  to  execute  the  work.  Moreover,  though  he  was 
not  actually  watched  while  he  read  it,  he  could  see  that  it 
would  be  almost  impracticable  to  use  writing  materials 
in  the  office  of  the  Chancery  without  being  observed. 
He  was  able,  however,  to  take  out  the  original  which  he 
carried  with  him  and  to  compare  it  with  the  copy.  Both 
were  by  one  hand,  and  the  copy  was  only  distinguished 
by  the  seal  of  the  government  office.  It  was  kept,  like 
all  such  documents,  in  a  dusty  case  upon  which  were 
written  the  number  and  letter  of  the  alphabet  by  which 
it  was  classified. 

Meschini  hesitated  only  a  moment,  and  then  decided 
to  substitute  the  original  for  the  copy.  Should  the  keeper 
of  the  archives  chance  to  look  at  the  parchment  and  dis 
cover  the  absence  of  the  seal,  Meschini  could  easily 
excuse  himself  by  saying  that  he  had  mistaken  the  two, 
and  indeed  with  that  one  exception  they  were  very  much 
alike.  The  keeper,  however,  noticed  nothing  and  Ar- 
noldo  had  the  satisfaction  of  seeing  him  unsuspiciously 
return  the  cardboard  case  to  its  place  on  the  shelves.  He 
went  back  to  his  room  and  set  to  work. 

The  longer  he  looked  at  the  sheet  the  more  clearly  he 
saw  that  it  would  be  impossible  to  make  the  insertion. 
There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  forge  a  new  docu 
ment  with  the  added  words.  He  did  not  like  the  idea, 
though  he  believed  himself  fully  able  to  carry  it  out. 
There  was  a  risk,  he  thought,  which  he  had  not  meant  to 
undertake ;  but  on  the  other  hand  the  reward  was  great. 
He  put  forth  all  his  skill  to  produce  the  imitation  and 
completed  it  in  ten  days  to  his  entire  satisfaction.  He 
understood  the  preparation  of  seals  as  well  as  the  rest  of 
his  art,  and  had  no  difficulty  in  making  a  die  which  cor 
responded  precisely  with  the  wax.  In  the  first  place  he 
took  off  the  impression  carefully  with  kneaded  bread. 
From  this  with  a  little  plaster  of  Paris  he  reproduced  the 
seal,  which  he  very  carefully  retouched  with  a  fine  steel 

Q 


226  SANT'  ILARIO. 

instrument  until  it  was  quite  perfect.  Over  this  again 
he  poured  melted  lead,  thus  making  a  hard  die  with  which 
he  could  stamp  the  wax  without  danger  of  breaking  the 
instrument.  Once  more  he  retouched  the  lead  with  a 
graving  tool,  using  a  lens  for  the  work  and  ultimately 
turning  out  an  absolutely  accurate  copy  of  the  seal  used 
in  the  Chancery  office.  He  made  experiments  as  he  pro 
ceeded,  and  when  he  was  at  last  satisfied  he  turned  to  the 
actual  forgery,  which  was  a  longer  matter  and  required 
greater  skill  and  patience.  Nothing  was  omitted  which 
could  make  the  fraud  complete.  The  parchment  assumed 
the  exact  shade  under  his  marvellous  manipulation. 
The  smallest  roughness  was  copied  with  faultless  pre 
cision,  and  then  by  many  hours  of  handling  and  the  use 
of  a  little  dust  collected  among  the  books  in  the  library, 
he  imparted  to  the  whole  the  appearance  of  age  which 
was  indispensable.  When  he  had  finished  he  showed 
his  work  to  old  Montevarchi,  but  by  an  inherent  love  of 
duplicity  did  not  tell  him  that  the  whole  document  was 
forged,  merely  pointing  to  the  inserted  clause  as  a  master 
piece  of  imitation.  First,  however,  he  pretended  that 
the  copy  had  actually  contained  the  inserted  words,  and 
the  prince  found  it  hard  to  believe  that  this  was  not  the 
case.  Meschini  was  triumphant. 

Again  he  returned  to  the  Chancery  and  substituted 
what  he  had  written  for  the  first  original  upon  which  he 
had  now  to  make  the  insertion.  There  was  no  difficulty 
here,  and  yet  he  hesitated  before  beginning.  It  seemed 
to  him  safer  after  all  to  forge  the  whole  of  the  second  as 
he  had  done  the  first.  A  slip  of  the  pen,  an  unlucky  drop 
of  ink  might  mar  the  work  and  excite  suspicion,  whereas 
if  he  made  a  mistake  upon  a  fresh  sheet  of  parchment  he 
coiild  always  begin  again.  There  was  only  one  danger. 
The  Saracinesca  might  have  made  some  private  mark 
upon  the  original  which  should  elude  even  his  microscopic 
examination.  He  spent  nearly  a  day  in  examining  the 
sheet  with  a  lens  but  could  discover  nothing.  Being 
satisfied  of  the  safety  of  the  proceeding  he  executed  the 
forgery  with  the  same  care  he  had  bestowed  upon  the 
first,  and  showed  it  to  his  employer.  The  latter  could 
scarcely  believe  his  eyes,  and  was  very  far  from  imagin 
ing  that  the  two  orignals  were  intact  and  carefully 


SANT*   ILARIO.  227 

locked  up  in  Meschini's  room.  The  prince  took  the 
document  and  studied  its  contents  again  during  many 
hours  before  he  finally  decided  to  return  it  to  old  Sara- 
cinesca. 

It  was  a  moment  of  intense  excitement.  He  hesitated 
whether  he  should  take  the  manuscripts  back  himself  or 
send  them  by  a  messenger.  Had  he  been  sure  of  con 
trolling  himself,  he  would  have  gone  in  person,  but  he 
knew  that  if  Saracinesca  should  chance  to  look  over  the 
writing  when  they  were  together,  it  would  be  almost  im 
possible  to  conceal  emotion  under  such  a  trial  of  nerve. 
What  he  really  hoped  was  that  the  prince  would  think 
no  more  of  the  matter,  and  put  away  the  parcel  without 
examining  the  contents. 

Montevarchi  pondered  long  over  the  course  he  should 
pursue,  his  eyes  gleaming  now  and  then  with  a  wild 
triumph,  and  then  growing  dull  and  glassy  at  the  horri 
ble  thought  of  discovery.  Then  again  the  consciousness 
that  he  was  committing  a  great  crime  overcame  him,  and 
he  twisted  his  fingers  nervously.  He  had  embarked  upon 
the  undertaking,  however,  and  he  fully  believed  that  it 
would  be  impossible  to  draw  back  even  had  he  wished  to 
do  so.  The  insertions  were  made  and  could  not  be  erased. 
It  is  possible  that  at  one  moment,  had  Montevarchi  known 
the  truth,  he  would  have  drawn  back;  but  it  is  equally 
sure  that  if  he  had  done  so  he  would  sooner  or  later  have 
regretted  it,  and  would  have  done  all  in  his  power  to 
recover  lost  ground  and  to  perpetrate  the  fraud.  The 
dominant  passion  for  money,  when  it  is  on  the  point  of 
being  satisfied,  is  one  of  the  strongest  incentives  to  evil 
deeds,  and  in  the  present  case  the  stake  was  enormous. 
He  would  not  let  it  slip  through  his  fingers.  He  rejoiced 
that  the  thing  was  done  and  that  the  millions  of  the 
Saracinesca  were  already  foredoomed  to  be  his. 

It  is  doubtful  whether  he  was  able  to  form  a  clear  con 
ception  of  what  would  take  place  after  the  trial  was  over 
and  the  property  awarded  to  his  son-in-law.  It  was 
perhaps  enough  for  his  ambition  that  his  daughter  should 
be  Princess  Saracinesca,  and  he  did  not  doubt  his  power 
to  control  some  part  of  the  fortune.  San  Giacinto,  who 
was  wholly  innocent  in  the  matter,  would,  he  thought, 
be  deeply  grateful  for  having  been  told  of  his  position, 


228  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

and  would  show  his  gratitude  in  a  befitting  manner. 
Moreover,  Monte varchi's  avarice  was  on  a  grand  scale, 
and  it  was  not  so  much  the  possession  of  more  money  for 
himself  that  he  coveted,  as  the  aggrandisement  of  his 
children  and  grandchildren.  The  partriarchal  system 
often  produces  this  result.  He  would  scarcely  have 
known  what  to  do  with  a  greater  fortune  than  he  pos 
sessed,  "but  he  looked  forward  with  a  wild  delight  to  see 
ing  his  descendants  masters  of  so  much  wealth.  The 
fact  that  he  could  not  hope  to  enjoy  his  satisfaction  very 
long  did  not  detract  from  its  reality  or  magnitude.  The 
miser  is  generally  long-lived,  and  does  not  begin  to  antic 
ipate  death  until  the  catastrophe  is  near  at  hand.  Even 
then  it  is  a  compensation  to  him  to  feel  that  the  heirs  of 
his  body  are  to  be  made  glorious  by  what  he  has  accu 
mulated,  and  his  only  fear  is  that  they  will  squander 
what  he  has  spent  his  strength  in  amassing.  He  educates 
his  children  to  be  thrifty  and  rejoices  when  they  spend 
no  money,  readily  believing  them  to  be  as  careful  as 
himself,  and  seldom  reflecting  that,  if  he  furnished  them 
with  the  means,  their  true  disposition  might  turn  out  to 
be  very  different.  It  is  so  intensely  painful  to  him  to 
think  of  wealth  being  wasted  that  he  cultivates  the  belief 
in  the  thriftiness  of  those  who  must  profit  by  his  death. 
If  he  has  been  born  to  worldly  state  as  well  as  to  a  great 
inheritance,  he  extends  the  desire  of  accumulation  to  the 
fortunes  of  his  relations  and  descendants,  and  shows  a 
laudable  anxiety  that  they  should  possess  all  that  he  can 
get  for  them,  provided  it  is  quite  impossible  that  he 
should  get  it  for  himself.  The  powers  of  the  world  have 
been  to  a  great  extent  built  up  on  this  principle,  and  it 
is  a  maxim  in  many  a  great  family  that  there  is  no  econ 
omy  like  enriching  one's  relatives  to  the  third  and  fourth 
generation. 

The  struggle  in  Montevarchi's  mind  was  so  insignifi 
cant  and  lasted  so  short  a  time,  that  it  might  be  disre 
garded  altogether,  were  it  not  almost  universally  true 
that  the  human  mind  hesitates  at  the  moment  of  commit 
ting  a  crime.  That  moment  of  hesitation  has  prevented 
millions  of  frightful  deeds,  and  has  betrayed  thousands 
of  carefully  plotted  conspiracies  whose  success  seemed 
assured,  and  it  is  amazing  to  think  what  an  influence  has 


SANT'  ILARIO.  229 

been  exerted  upon  the  destinies  of  the  human  race  by  the 
instinctive  fear  of  crossing  the  narrow  boundary  between 
right  and  wrong.  The  time  occupied  in  such  reflection 
is  often  only  infinitesimal.  It  has  been  called  the  psy 
chological  moment,  and  if  the  definition  means  that  it  is 
the  instant  during  which  the  soul  suggests,  it  is  a  true 
one.  It  is  then  that  our  natural  repulsion  for  evil  asserts 
itself;  it  is  then  that  the  consequences  of  what  we  are 
about  to  do  rise  clearly  before  us  as  in  a  mirror;  it  is 
then  that  our  courage  is  suddenly  strengthened  to  do  the 
right,  or  deserts  us  and  leaves  us  mere  instruments  for 
the  accomplishment  of  the  wrong.  If  humanity  had  not 
an  element  of  good  in  it,  there  would  be  no  hesitation  in 
the  perpetration  of  crime,  any  more  than  a  wild  beast 
pauses  before  destroying  a  weaker  creature.  Perhaps 
there  is  no  clearer  proof  of  the  existence  of  a  divine  soul 
in  man,  than  his  intuitive  reluctance  to  do  what  in  the 
lower  animals  would  be  most  natural.  Circumstances, 
education,  the  accidents  of  life,  all  tend  to  make  this 
psychologic  moment  habitually  shorter  or  longer.  The 
suspense  created  in  the  conscience,  during  which  the 
intelligence  is  uncertain  how  to  act,  may  last  a  week  or 
a  second,  a  year  or  a  quarter  of  an  hour ;  but  it  is  a  stage 
through  which  all  must  pass,  both  the  professional  crimi 
nal  and  the  just  man  who  is  perhaps  tempted  to  commit 
a  crime  but  once  during  his  life. 

Old  Lotario  Montevarchi  had  never  been  guilty  of  any 
misdeed  subject  to  the  provisions  of  the  penal  code;  but 
he  had  done  most  things  in  his  love  of  money  which  were 
not  criminal  only  because  the  law  had  not  foreseen  the 
tortuous  peculiarities  of  his  mind.  Even  now  he  per 
suaded  himself  that  the  end  was  a  righteous  one,  and  that 
his  course  was  morally  justifiable.  He  had  that  power  of 
deceiving  himself  which  characterises  the  accomplished 
hypocrite,  and  he  easily  built  up  for  San  Giacinto  a 
whole  edifice  of  sympathy  which  seemed  in  his  own  view 
very  real  and  moral.  He  reflected  with  satisfaction  upon 
the  probable  feelings  of  the  old  Leone  Saracinesca,  when, 
after  relinquishing  his  birthright,  he  found  himself  mar 
ried  and  the  father  of  a  son.  How  the  poor  man  must 
have  cursed  his  folly  and  longed  for  some  means  of  un 
doing  the  deed !  It  was  but  common  justice  after  all  —  it 


was  but  common  justice,  and  it  was  a  mere  accident  of 
fate  that  Leone's  great-grandson,  who  was  now  to  be 
reinstated  in  all  the  glories  of  his  princely  possessions, 
was  also  to  marry  Flavia  Montevarchi. 

The  prospect  was  too  alluring  and  the  suspense  lasted 
but  a  moment,  though  he  believed  that  he  spent  much 
time  in  considering  the  situation.  The  thoughts  that 
really  occupied  him  were  not  of  a  nature  to  hinder  the 
accomplishment  of  his  plan,  and  he  was  not  at  all  sur 
prised  with  himself  when  he  finally  tied  up  the  packet 
and  rang  for  a  messenger.  Detection  was  impossible,  for 
by  Meschini's  skilful  management,  the  original  and  the 
official  copy  corresponded  exactly  and  were  such  marvel 
lous  forgeries  as  to  defy  discovery.  When  it  is  considered 
that  the  greatest  scientists  and  specialists  in  Europe  have 
recently  disagreed  concerning  documents  which  are  un 
doubtedly  of  modern  manufacture,  and  which  were  pro 
duced  by  just  such  men  as  Arnoldo  Meschini,  it  need  not 
appear  surprising  that  the  latter  should  successfully  im 
pose  upon  a  court  of  law.  The  circumstances  of  the 
Saracinesca  family  history,  too,  lent  an  air  of  probability 
to  the  alleged  facts.  The  poverty  and  temporary  disap 
pearance  of  Leone's  descendants  explained  why  they  had 
not  attempted  to  recover  their  rights.  Nay,  more,  since 
Leone  had  died  when  his  son  was  an  infant,  and  since 
there  was  no  copy  of  the  document  among  his  papers,  it 
was  more  than  probable  that  the  child  on  growing  up  had 
never  known  the  nature  of  the  deed,  and  would  not  have 
been  likely  to  suspect  what  was  now  put  forward  as  the 
truth,  unless  his  attention  were  called  to  it  by  some  per 
son  possessed  of  the  necessary  knowledge. 

The  papers  were  returned  to  Prince  Saracinesca  in  the 
afternoon  with  a  polite  note  of  thanks.  It  will  be  re 
membered  that  the  prince  had  not  read  the  documents,  as 
he  had  meant  to  do,  in  consequence  of  the  trouble  be 
tween  Giovanni  and  Corona  which  had  made  him  forget 
his  intention.  He  had  not  looked  over  them  since  he 
had  been  a  young  man  and  the  recollection  of  their  con 
tents  was  far  from  clear.  Having  always  supposed  the 
collateral  branch  of  his  family  to  be  extinct,  it  was  only 
natural  that  he  should  have  bestowed  very  little  thought 
upon  the  ancient  deeds  which  he  believed  to  have  been 
drawn  up  in  due  form  and  made  perfectly  legal. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  231 

When  he  came  home  towards  evening,  he  found  the 
sealed  packet  upon  his  table,  and  having  opened  it,  was 
about  to  return  the  papers  to  their  place  in  the  archives. 
It  chanced  that  he  had  a  letter  to  write,  however,  and  he 
pushed  the  documents  aside  before  taking  them  to  the 
library.  While  he  was  writing,  Giovanni  entered  the 
room. 

As  has  been  seen,  the  prince  had  been  very  angry  with 
his  son  for  having  allowed  himself  to  doubt  Corona,  and 
though  several  days  had  elapsed  since  the  matter  had 
been  explained,  the  old  man's  wrath  had  not  wholly  sub 
sided.  He  still  felt  considerable  resentment  against 
Giovanni,  and  his  intercourse  with  the  latter  had  not  yet 
regained  its  former  cordiality.  As  Sant'  Ilario  entered 
the  room,  Saracinesca  looked  up  with  an  expression 
which  showed  clearly  that  the  interruption  was  unwel 
come. 

"Do  I  disturb  you?"  asked  Giovanni,  noticing  the 
look. 

"Do  you  want  anything?" 

"No  — nothing  especial." 

Saracinesca' s  eye  fell  upon  the  pile  of  manuscripts 
that  lay  on  the  table.  It  struck  him  that  Giovanni  might 
occupy  himself  by  looking  them  over,  while  he  himself 
finished  the  letter  he  had  begun. 

"There  are  those  deeds  relating  to  San  Giacinto,"  he 
said,  "you  might  look  through  them  before  they  are  put 
away.  Montevarchi  borrowed  them  for  a  day  or  two  and 
has  just  sent  them  back." 

Giovanni  took  the  bundle  and  established  himself  in 
a  comfortable  chair  beside  a  low  stand,  where  the  light 
of  a  lamp  fell  upon  the  pages  as  he  turned  them.  He 
made  no  remark,  but  began  to  examine  the  documents, 
one  by  one,  running  his  eye  rapidly  along  the  lines,  as 
he  read  on  mechanically,  not  half  comprehending  the 
sense  of  the  words.  He  was  preoccupied  by  thoughts  of 
Corona  and  of  what  had  lately  happened,  so  that  he 
found  it  hard  to  fix  his  attention.  The  prince's  pen 
scratched  and  spattered  on  the  paper,  and  irritated  Gio 
vanni,  for  the  old  gentleman  wrote  a  heavy,  nervous 
handwriting,  and  lost  his  temper  twenty  times  in  five 
minutes,  mentally  cursing  the  ink,  the  paper  and  the  pen, 
and  wishing  he  could  write  like  a  shopman  or  a  clerk. 


232  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Giovanni's  attention  was  arrested  by  the  parchment  on 
which  the  principal  deed  was  executed,  and  he  began  to 
read  the  agreement  with  more  care  than  he  had  bestowed 
upon  the  other  papers.  He  understood  Latin  well  enough, 
but  the  crabbed  characters  puzzled  him  from  time  to 
time.  He  read  the  last  words  on  the  first  page  without 
thinking  very  much  of  what  they  meant. 

".  .  .  .  Eo  tamen  pacto,  quod  si  praedicto  Domino 
Leoni  ex  legitimo  matrimonio  heres  nasceretur,  instru- 
mentum  hoc  nullum,  vanum  atque  plane  invalidum  fiat." 

Giovanni  smiled  at  the  quaint  law  Latin,  and  then  read 
the  sentence  over  again.  His  face  grew  grave  as  he 
realised  the  tremendous  import  of  those  few  words. 
Again  and  again  he  translated  the  phrase,  trying  to  ex 
tract  from  it  some  other  meaning  than  that  which  was 
so  unpleasantly  clear.  No  other  construction,  however, 
could  be  put  upon  what  was  written,  and  for  some  minutes 
Giovanni  sat  staring  at  the  fire,  bewildered  and  almost 
terrified  by  his  discovery. 

"Have  you  ever  read  those  papers?"  he  asked  at  last, 
in  a  voice  that  made  his  father  drop  his  pen  and  look  up. 

"Not  for  thirty  years." 

"  Then  you  had  better  read  them  at  once.  San  Gia- 
cinto  is  Prince  Saracinesca  and  you  and  I  are  nobody." 

Saracinesca  uttered  a  fierce  oath  and  sprang  from  his 
chair. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  he  asked,  seizing  Giovanni's 
arm  violently  with  one  hand  and  taking  the  parchment 
with  the  other. 

"  Eead  for  yourself.  There  —  at  the  foot  of  the  page, 
from  'eo  tamen  pacto.'  It  is  plain  enough.  It  says, 
'On  the  understanding  that  if  an  heir  be  born  to  the 
aforesaid  Don  Leone,  in  lawful  wedlock,  the  present 
instrument  shall  be  wholly  null,  void  and  inefficacious." 
An  heir  was  born,  and  San  Giacinto  is  that  heir's  grand 
son.  You  may  tear  up  the  document.  It  is  not  worth 
the  parchment  it  is  written  upon,  nor  are  we  either." 

"  You  are  mad,  Giovannino ! "  exclaimed  the  prince, 
hoarsely,  "that  is  not  the  meaning  of  the  words.  You 
have  forgotten  your  Latin." 

"I  will  get  you  a  dictionary  —  or  a  lawyer  —  which 
ever  you  prefer." 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  233 

"You  are  not  in  earnest,  my  boy.  Look  here  —  eo 
tamen  pacto  —  that  means  'by  this  agreement '  — does  it 
hot?  I  am  not  so  rusty  as  you  seem  to  think." 

"It  means  'on  this  understanding,  however.'  Go  on. 
Quod  si,  that  if  —  praedicto  Domino  Leoni,  to  the  afore 
said  Don  Leone  —  ex  legitimo  matrimonio,  from  a  law 
ful  marriage  —  heres  nasceretur,  an  heir  should  be  born 
—  hoc  instrumentum,  this  deed  —  shall  be  null,  worthless 
and  invalid.  You  cannot  get  any  other  sense  out  of  it. 
I  have  tried  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour.  You  and  I  are 
beggars.  Saracinesca,  Torleone,  Barda,  and  all  the  rest 
belong  to  San  Giacinto,  the  direct  descendant  of  your 
great-grandfather's  elder  brother.  You  are  simple  Don 
Leone,  and  I  am  plain  Don  Giovanni.  That  is  what  it 
means." 

"Good  God!"  cried  the  old  man  in  extreme  horror. 
"  If  you  should  be  right " 

"  I  am  right, "  replied  Giovanni,  very  pale. 

With  wild  eyes  and  trembling  hands  the  prince  spread 
the  document  upon  the  table  and  read  it  over  again.  He 
turned  it  and  went  on  to  the  end,  his  excitement  bring 
ing  back  in  the  moment  such  scholarship  as  he  had  once 
possessed  and  making  every  sentence  as  clear  as  the  day. 

"  Not  even  San  Giacinto  —  not  even  a  title ! "  he 
exclaimed  desperately.  He  fell  back  in  his  chair, 
crushed  by  the  tremendous  blow  that  had  fallen  so  unex 
pectedly  upon  him  in  his  old  age. 

"  Not  even  San,Giacinto, "  repeated  Giovanni,  stupidly. 
His  presence  of  mind  began  to  forsake  him,  too,  and  he 
sank  down,  burying  his  face  in  his  hands.  As  in  a  dream 
he  saw  his  cousin  installed  in  the  very  chair  where  his 
father  now  sat,  master  of  the  house  in  which  he,  Gio 
vanni,  had  been  born,  like  his  father  before  him,  master 
of  the  fortresses  and  castles,  the  fair  villas  and  the  broad 
lands,  the  palaces  and  the  millions  to  which  Giovanni 
had  thought  himself  heir,  lord  over  the  wealth  and 
inheritances  of  his  race,  dignified  by  countless  titles  and 
by  all  the  consideration  that  falls  to  the  lot  of  the  great 
in  this  world. 

For  a  long  time  neither  spoke,  for  both  were  equally 
overwhelmed  by  the  magnitude  of  the  disaster  that  hung 
over  their  heads.  They  looked  furtively  at  each  other, 


234  SANT'  ILARIO. 

and  each  saw  that  his  companion  was  white  to  the  lips. 
The  old  man  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 

"  At  all  events,  San  Giacinto  does  not  know  how  the 
deed  stands,"  he  said. 

"  It  will  make  it  all  the  harder  to  tell  him, "  replied 
Giovanni. 

"  To  tell  him?    You  would  not  be  so  mad " 

"Do  you  think  it  would  be  honourable,"  asked  the 
younger  man,  "  for  us  to  remain  in  possession  of  what 
clearly  does  not  belong  to  us?  I  will  not  do  it." 

"  We  have  been  in  possession  for  more  than  a  century. " 

"  That  is  no  reason  why  we  should  continue  to  steal 
another  man's  money,"  said  Giovanni.  "We  are  men. 
Let  us  act  like  men.  It  is  bitter.  It  is  horrible.  But 
we  have  no  other  course.  After  all,  Corona  has  Astrar- 
dente.  She  will  give  you  a  home.  She  is  rich." 

"Me?    Why  do  you  say  me?     Us  both." 

"I  will  work  for  my  living,"  said  Giovanni,  quietly. 
"I  am  young.  I  will  not  live  on  my  wife." 

"  It  is  absurd !  "  exclaimed  the  prince.  "  It  is  Quixotic. 
San  Giacinto  has  plenty  of  money  without  ruining  us. 
Even  if  he  finds  it  out  I  will  fight  the  case  to  the  end. 
I  am  master  here,  as  my  father  and  my  father's  father 
were  before  me,  and  I  will  not  give  up  what  is  mine 
without  a  struggle.  Besides,  who  assures  us  that  he  is 
really  what  he  represents  himself  to  be?  What  proves 
that  he  is  really  the  descendant  of  that  same  Leone?" 

"For  that  matter,"  answered  Giovanni,  "he  will  have 
to  produce  very  positive  proofs,  valid  in  law,  to  show 
that  he  is  really  the  man.  I  will  give  up  everything  to 
the  lawful  heir,  but  I  will  certainly  not  turn  beggar  to 
please  an  adventurer.  But  I  say  that,  if  San  Giacinto 
represents  the  elder  branch  of  our  house,  we  have  no 
right  here.  If  I  were  sure  of  it  I  would  not  sleep  another 
night  under  this  roof." 

The  old  man  could  not  withhold  his  admiration.  There 
was  something  supremely  noble  and  generous  about  Gio 
vanni's  readiness  to  sacrifice  everything  for  justice  which 
made  his  old  heart  beat  with  a  strange  pride.  If  he  was 
reluctant  to  renounce  his  rights  it  was  after  all  more  on 
Giovanni's  account,  and  for  the  sake  of  Corona  and  little 
Orsino.  He  himself  was  an  old  man  and  had  lived  most 
of  his  life  out  already. 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  235 

"You  have  your  mother's  heart,  Giovannino,"  he  said 
simply,  but  there  was  a  slight  moisture  in  his  eyes, 
which  few  emotions  had  ever  had  the  power  to  bring 
there. 

"It  is  not  a  question  of  heart,"  replied  Giovanni. 
"We  cannot  keep  what  does  not  belong  to  us." 

"  We  will  let  the  law  decide  what  we  can  keep.  Do 
you  realise  what  it  would  be  like,  what  a  position  we 
should  occupy  if  we  were  suddenly  declared  beggars? 
We  should  be  absolute  paupers.  We  do  not  own  a  foot 
of  land,  a  handful  of  money  that  does  not  come  under  the 
provisions  of  that  accursed  clause." 

"Wait  a  minute,"  exclaimed  Giovanni,  suddenly  recol 
lecting  that  he  possessed  something  of  his  own,  a  fact  he 
had  wholly  forgotten  in  the  excitement  of  his  discovery. 
"  We  shall  not  be  wholly  without  resources.  It  does  not 
follow  from  this  deed  that  we  must  give  to  San  Giacinto 
any  of  the  property  our  branch  of  the  family  has  acquired 
by  marriage,  from  your  great  grandfather's  time  to  this. 
It  must  be  very  considerable.  To  begin  with  me,  my  for 
tune  came  from  my  mother.  Then  there  was  your 
mother,  and  your  father's  mother,  and  so  on.  San  Gia 
cinto  has  no  claim  to  anything  not  originally  the  property 
of  the  old  Leone  who  made  this  deed." 

"That  is  true,"  replied  the  prince,  more  hopefully. 
"  It  is  not  so  bad  as  it  looked.  You  must  be  right  about 
that  point." 

"  Unless  the  courts  decide  that  San  Giacinto  is  entitled 
to  compensation  and  interest,  because  four  generations 
have  been  kept  out  of  the  property." 

Both  men  looked  grave.  The  suggestion  was  unpleas 
ant.  Such  judgments  had  been  given  before  and  might 
be  given  again. 

"  We  had  better  send  for  our  lawyer, "  said  the  prince, 
at  last.  "  The  sooner  we  know  the  real  value  of  that  bit 
of  parchment  the  better  it  will  be  for  us.  I  cannot  bear 
the  suspense  of  waiting  a  day  to  know  the  truth.  Imag 
ine  that  the  very  chair  I  am  sitting  upon  may  belong  to 
San  Giacinto.  I  never  liked  the  fellow,  from  the  day 
when  I  first  found  him  in  his  inn  at  Aquila." 

"It  is  not  his  fault,"  answered  Giovanni,  quietly. 
"  This  is  a  perfectly  simple  matter.  We  did  not  know 


236  SANT'  ILARIO. 

what  these  papers  were.  Even  if  we  had  known,  we 
should  have  laughed  at  them  until  we  discovered  that  we 
had  a  cousin.  After  all  we  shall  not  starve,  and  what  is 
a  title?  The  Pope  will  give  you  another  when  he  knows 
what  has  happened.  I  would  as  soon  be  plain  Don  Gio 
vanni  as  Prince  of  Sant'  Ilario." 

"For  that  matter,  you  can  call  yourself  Astrardente." 

"I  would  rather  not,"  said  Giovanni,  with  something 
like  a  laugh.  "But  I  must  tell  Corona  this  news." 

"  Wait  till  she  is  herself  again.  It  might  disturb  her 
too  much." 

"  You  do  not  know  her !  "  Giovanni  laughed  heartily 
this  time.  "If  you  think  she  cares  for  such  things,  you 
are  very  much  mistaken  in  her  character.  She  will  bear 
the  misfortune  better  than  any  of  us.  Courage,  padre 
mio!  Things  are  never  so  black  as  they  look  at  first." 

"  I  hope  not,  my  boy,  I  hope  not !  Go  and  tell  your 
wife,  if  you  think  it  best.  I  would  rather  be  alone." 

Giovanni  left  the  room,  and  Saracinesca  was  alone. 
He  sank  back  once  more  in  his  chair  and  folded  his 
strong  brown  hands  together  upon  the  edge  of  the  table 
before  him.  In  spite  of  all  Giovanni  could  say,  the  old 
man  felt  keenly  the  horror  of  his  position.  Only  those 
who,  having  been  brought  up  in  immense  wealth  and 
accustomed  from  childhood  to  the  pomp  and  circumstance 
of  a  very  great  position,  are  suddenly  deprived  of  every 
thing,  can  understand  what  he  felt. 

He  was  neither  avaricious  nor  given  to  vanity.  He 
had  not  wasted  his  fortune,  though  he  had  spent  mag 
nificently  a  princely  income.  He  had  not  that  small 
affection  for  greatness  which,  strange  to  say,  is  often 
found  in  the  very  great.  But  his  position  was  part  of 
himself,  so  that  he  could  no  more  imagine  himself  plain 
Don  Leone  Saracinesca,  than  he  could  conceive  himself 
boasting  of  his  ancient  titles.  And  yet  it  was  quite 
plain  to  him  that  he  must  either  cease  to  be  a  prince 
altogether,  or  accept  a  new  title  as  a  charity  from  his 
sovereign.  As  for  his  fortune,  it  was  only  too  plain  that 
the  greater  part  of  it  had  never  been  his. 

To  a  man  of  his  temperament  the  sensation  of  finding 
himself  a  mere  impostor  was  intolerable.  His  first 
impulse  had  of  course  been  to  fight  the  case,  and  had  the 


SANT'  ILARIO.  237 

attack  upon  his  position  come  from  San  Giacinto,  he 
would  probably  have  done  so.  But  his  own  son  had  dis 
covered  the  truth  and  had  put  the  matter  clearly  before 
him,  in  such  a  light  as  to  make  an  appeal  to  his  honour. 
He  had  no  choice  but  to  submit.  He  could  not  allow 
himself  to  be  outdone  in  common  honesty  by  the  boy  he 
loved,  nor  could  he  have  been  guilty  of  deliberate  injus 
tice,  for  his  own  advantage,  after  he  had  been  convinced 
that  he  had  no  right  to  his  possessions.  He  belonged  to 
a  race  of  men  who  had  frequently  committed  great  crimes 
and  done  atrocious  deeds,  notorious  in  history,  from 
motives  of  personal  ambition,  for  the  love  of  women  or 
out  of  hatred  for  men,  but  who  had  never  had  the  repu 
tation  of  loving  money  or  of  stooping  to  dishonour  for 
its  sake.  As  soon  as  he  was  persuaded  that  everything 
belonged  to  San  Giacinto,  he  felt  that  he  must  resign  all 
in  favour  of  the  latter. 

One  doubt  alone  remained  to  be  solved.  It  was  not 
absolutely  certain  that  San  Giacinto  was  the  man  he 
represented  himself  to  be.  It  was  quite  possible  that  he 
should  have  gained  possession  of  the  papers  he  held,  by 
some  means  known  only  to  himself;  such  things  are 
often  sold  as  curiosities,  and  as  the  last  of  the  older 
branch  of  whom  there  was  any  record  preserved  in  Rome 
had  died  in  obscurity,  it  was  conceivable  that  the  ex- 
innkeeper  might  have  found  or  bought  the  documents 
he  had  left,  in  order  to  call  himself  Marchese  di  San 
Giacinto.  Saracinesca  did  not  go  so  far  as  to  believe 
that  the  latter  had  any  knowledge  whatsoever  of  the 
main  deed  which  was  about  to  cause  so  much  trouble, 
unless  he  had  seen  it  in  the  hands  of  Montevarchi,  in 
which  case  he  could  not  be  blamed  if  he  brought  a  suit 
for  the  recovery  'of  so  much  wealth. 


CHAPTER   XVI. 

Giovanni  was  quite  right  in  his  prediction  concerning 
Corona's  conduct.  He  found  her  in  her  dressing-room, 
lying  upon  the  couch  near  the  fire,  as  he  had  found  her 


238  SANT'  ILARIO. 

on  that  fatal  evening  three  weeks  earlier.  He  sat  down 
beside  her  and  took  her  hand  in  his.  She  had  not  wholly 
recovered  her  strength  yet,  but  her  beauty  had  returned 
and  seemed  perfected  by  the  suffering  through  which  she 
had  passed.  In  a  few  words  he  told  her  the  whole  story, 
to  which  she  listened  without  showing  any  great  sur 
prise.  Once  or  twice,  while  he  was  speaking,  her  dark 
eyes  sought  his  with  an  expression  he  did  not  fully  under 
stand,  but  which  was  at  least  kind  and  full  of  sympathy. 

"Are  you  quite  sure  of  all  the  facts?"  she  asked  when 
he  had  finished.  "  Are  you  certain  that  San  Giacinto  is 
the  man?  I  cannot  tell  why,  but  I  have  always  dis 
trusted  him  since  he  first  came  to  us." 

"  That  is  the  only  point  that  remains  to  be  cleared  up, " 
answered  Giovanni.  "  If  he  is  not  the  man  he  will  not 
venture  to  take  any  steps  in  the  matter,  lest  he  should 
be  exposed  and  lose  what  he  has." 

"What  will  you  do?" 

"  I  hardly  know.  If  he  is  really  our  cousin,  we  must 
give  up  everything  without  a  struggle.  We  are  impos 
tors,  or  little  better.  I  think  I  ought  to  tell  him  plainly 
how  the  deed  is  made  out,  in  order  that  he  may  judge 
whether  or  not  he  is  in  a  position  to  prove  his  identity." 

"  Do  you  imagine  that  he  does  not  know  all  about  it  as 
well  as  we  ourselves?" 

"Probably  not  —  otherwise  he  would  have  spoken." 

"The  papers  came  back  from  Montevarchi  to-day," 
said  Corona.  "  It  is  gratuitous  to  suppose  that  the  old 
man  has  not  told  his  future  son-in-law  what  they  con 
tain.  Yes  —  you  see  it  yourself.  Therefore  San  Giacinto 
knows.  Therefore,  also,  if  he  is  the  man  he  pretends  to 
be,  he  will  let  you  know  his  intentions  soon  enough.  I 
fancy  you  forgot  that  in  your  excitement.  If  he  says 
nothing,  it  is  because  he  cannot  prove  his  rights." 

"  It  is  true,"  replied  Giovanni,  "  I  did  not  think  of  that. 
Nevertheless  I  would  like  to  be  beforehand.  I  wish  him 
to  know  that  we  shall  make  no  opposition.  It  is  a  point 
of  honour." 

"  Which  a  woman  cannot  understand,  of  course, "  added 
Corona,  calmly. 

"I  did  not  say  that.     I  do  not  mean  it." 

"  Well  —  do  you  want  my  advice?  " 


SANT'  ILARIO.  239 

"Always." 

The  single  word  was  uttered  with  an  accent  implying 
more  than  mere  trust,  and  was  accompanied  by  a  look 
full  of  strong  feeling.  But  Corona's  expression  did  not 
change.  Her  eyes  returned  the  glance  quietly,  without 
affectation,  neither  lovingly  nor  unlovingly,  but  indiffer 
ently.  Giovanni  felt  a  sharp  little  pain  in  his  heart  as 
he  realised  the  change  that  had  taken  place  in  his  wife. 

"  My  advice  is  to  do  nothing  in  the  matter.  San  Gia- 
cinto  may  be  an  impostor ;  indeed,  it  is  not  at  all  unlikely. 
If  he  is,  he  will  take  advantage  of  your  desire  to  act 
generously.  He  will  be  forewarned  and  forearmed  and 
will  have  time  to  procure  all  the  proofs  he  wants.  What 
could  you  say  to  him?  'If  you  can  prove  your  birth,  I 
give  you  all  I  possess. '  He  will  at  once  see  that  noth 
ing  else  is  necessary,  and  if  he  is  a  rogue  he  will  succeed. 
Besides,  as  I  tell  you,  he  knows  what  that  deed  contains 
as  well  as  you  do,  and  if  he  is  the  man  he  will  bring  an 
action  against  your  father  in  a  week.  If  he  does  not, 
you  gain  the  advantage  of  having  discovered  that  he  is 
an  impostor  without  exposing  yourself  to  be  robbed." 

"It  goes  against  the  grain,"  said  Giovanni.  "But  I 
suppose  you  are  right." 

"  You  will  do  as  you  think  best.  I  have  no  power  to 
make  you  follow  my  advice." 

"No  power?    Ah,  Corona,  do  not  say  that!  " 

A  short  silence  followed,  during  which  Corona  looked 
placidly  at  the  fire,  while  Giovanni  gazed  at  her  dark 
face  and  tried  to  read  the  thoughts  that  were  passing  in 
her  mind.  She  did  not  speak,  however,  and  his  guess 
work  was  inconclusive.  What  hurt  him  most  was  her 
indifference,  and  he  longed  to  discover  by  some  sign  that 
it  was  only  assumed. 

"I  would  rather  do  as  you  think  best,"  he  said  at  last. 

She  glanced  at  him  and  then  looked  back  at  the  blazing 
logs. 

"I  have  told  you  what  I  think,"  she  answered.  "It 
is  for  you  to  judge  and  to  decide.  The  whole  matter 
affects  you  more  than  it  does  me." 

"Is  it  not  the  same? " 

"  No.  If  you  lose  the  Saracinesca  titles  and  property 
we  shall  still  be  rich  enough.  You  have  a  fortune  of 


240  SANT'  ILARIO. 

your  own,  and  so  have  I.  The  name  is,  after  all,  an 
affair  which  concerns  you  personally.  I  should  have 
married  you  as  readily  had  you  been  called  anything 
else." 

The  reference  to  the  past  made  Giovanni's  heart  leap, 
and  the  colour  came  quickly  to  his  face.  It  was  almost 
as  though  she  had  said  that  she  would  have  loved  him  as 
well  had  he  borne  another  name,  and  that  might  mean 
that  she  loved  him  still.  But  her  calmness  belied  the 
hasty  conclusion  he  drew  from  her  words.  He  thought 
she  looked  like  a  statue,  as  she  lay  there  in  her  magnifi 
cent  rest,  her  hands  folded  upon  her  knees  before  her, 
her  eyes  so  turned  that  he  could  see  only  the  drooping 
lids. 

"  A  personal  affair ! "  he  exclaimed  suddenly,  in  a  bitter 
tone.  "It  was  different  once,  Corona." 

For  the  first  time  since  they  had  been  talking  her  face 
betrayed  some  emotion.  There  was  the  slightest  possible 
quiver  of  the  lip  as  she  answered. 

"Your  titles  were  never  anything  but  a  personal 
affair." 

"  What  concerns  me  concerns  you,  dear, "  said  Giovanni, 
tenderly. 

"  In  so  much  that  I  am  very  sorry  —  sincerely  sorry, 
when  anything  troubles  you."  Her  voice  was  kind  and 
gentle,  but  there  was  no  love  in  the  words.  "Believe 
me,  Giovanni,  I  would  give  all  I  possess  to  spare  you 
this." 

"  All  you  possess  —  is  there  not  a  little  love  left  in 
your  all?" 

The  cry  came  from  his  heart.  He  took  her  hand  in 
both  of  his,  and  leaned  forward  towards  her.  Her  fingers 
lay  passively  in  his  grasp,  and  the  colour  did  not  change 
in  her  dark  cheeks.  A  moment  ago  there  had  been  in 
her  heart  a  passionate  longing  for  the  past,  which  had 
almost  betrayed  itself,  but  when  he  spoke  of  present  love 
his  words  had  no  power  to  rouse  a  responsive  echo.  And 
yet  she  could  not  answer  him  roughly,  for  he  was  evi 
dently  in  earnest.  She  said  nothing,  therefore,  but  left 
her  hand  in  his.  His  love,  which  had  been  as  fierce  and 
strong  as  ever,  even  while  he  had  doubted  her  faith,  began 
to  take  new  proportions  of  which  he  had  never  dreamt. 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  241 

He  felt  like  a  man  struggling  with  death  in  some  visible 
and  tangible  shape. 

"  Is  it  all  over?  Will  you  never  love  me  again?  "  he 
asked  hoarsely. 

Her  averted  face  told  no  tale,  and  still  her  ringers  lay 
inert  between  his  broad  hands.  She  knew  how  he  suffered, 
and  yet  she  would  not  soothe  him  with  the  delusive  hope 
for  which  he  longed  so  intensely. 

"For  God's  sake,  Corona,  speak  to  me !  Is  there  never 
to  be  any  love  again?  Can  you  never  forgive  me?" 

"Ah,  dear,  I  have  forgiven  you  wholly  —  there  is  not 
an  unkind  thought  left  in  my  heart  for  you ! "  She 
turned  and  laid  the  hand  that  was  free  upon  his  shoul 
der,  looking  into  his  face  with  an  expression  that  was 
almost  imploring.  "Do  not  think  it  is  that,  oh,  not 
that !  I  would  forgive  you  again,  a  thousand  times " 

"And  love  me?"  he  cried,  throwing  his  arms  round 
her  neck,  and  kissing  her  passionately  again  and  again. 
But  suddenly  he  drew  back,  for  there  was  no  response  to 
his  caresses.  He  turned  very  pale  as  he  saw  the  look  in 
her  eyes.  There  were  tears  there,  for  the  love  that  had 
been,  for  his  present  pain,  perhaps,  but  there  was  not  one 
faint  spark  of  the  fire  that  had  burned  in  other  days. 

"  I  cannot  say  it ! "  she  answered  at  last.  "  Oh,  do  not 
make  me  say  it,  for  the  sake  of  all  that  was  once ! " 

In  his  emotion  Giovanni  slipped  from  the  low  chair 
and  knelt  beside  his  wife,  one  arm  still  around  her.  The 
shock  of  disappointment,  in  the  very  moment  when  he 
thought  she  was  yielding,  was  almost  more  than  he  could 
bear.  Had  not  her  heart  grown  wholly  cold,  the  sight 
of  his  agonised  face  would  have  softened  her.  She  was 
profoundly  moved  and  pitied  him  exceedingly,  but  she 
could  not  do  more. 

"  Giovanni  —  do  not  look  at  me  so !  If  I  could !  If  I 
only  could " 

"Are  you  made  of  stone?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice  chok 
ing  with  pain. 

"  What  can  I  do !  "  she  cried  in  despair,  sinking  back 
and  hiding  her  face  in  her  hands.  She  was  in  almost  as 
great  distress  as  he  himself. 

"Love  me,    Corona!     Only  love  me,   ever  so  little! 

Eemember  that  you  loved  me  once " 

R 


242  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"  God  knows  how  dearly !  Could  I  forget  it,  I  might 
love  you  now  — —  " 

"Oh,  forget  it  then,  beloved!  Let  it  be  undone.  Let 
the  past  be  unlived.  Say  that  you  never  loved  me  before, 
and  let  the  new  life  begin  to-day  —  can  you  not?  Will 
you  not?  It  is  so  little  I  ask,  only  the  beginning.  I  will 
make  it  grow  till  it  shall  fill  your  heart.  Sweet  love, 
dear  love !  love  me  but  enough  to  say  it " 

"  Do  you  think  I  would  not,  if  I  could?  Ah,  I  would 
give  my  whole  life  to  bring  back  what  is  gone,  but  I  can 
not.  It  is  dead.  You  —  no,  not  you  —  some  evil  thing 
has  killed  it.  Say  it?  Yes,  dear,  I  would  say  it  —  I  will 
say  it  if  you  bid  me.  Giovanni,  I  love  you  —  yes,  those 
are  the  words.  Do  they  mean  anything?  Can  I  make 
them  sound  true?  Can  I  make  the  dead  alive  again?  Is 
it  anything  but  the  breath  of  my  lips?  Oh,  Giovanni, 
my  lost  love,  why  are  you  not  Giovanni  still?" 

Again  his  arms  went  round  her  and  he  pressed  her 
passionately  to  his  heart.  She  turned  pale,  and  though 
she  tried  to  hide  it,  she  shrank  from  his  embrace,  while 
her  lips  quivered  and  the  tears  of  pain  started  in  her 
eyes.  She  suffered  horribly,  in  a  way  she  had  never 
dreamed  of  as  possible.  He  saw  what  she  felt  and  let 
her  fall  back  upon  the  cushions,  while  he  still  knelt  be 
side  her.  He  saw  that  his  mere  touch  was  repugnant  to 
her,  and  yet  he  could  not  leave  her.  He  saw  how  bravely 
she  struggled  to  bear  his  kisses,  and  how  revolting  they 
were  to  her,  and  yet  the  magic  of  her  beauty  held  his 
passionate  nature  under  a  spell,  while  the  lofty  dignity 
of  her  spirit  enthralled  his  soul.  She  was  able  to  forgive, 
though  he  had  so  injured  her,  she  was  willing  to  love 
him,  if  she  could,  though  he  had  wounded  her  so  cruelly ; 
it  was  torture  to  think  that  she  could  go  no  further,  that 
he  should  never  again  hear  the  thrill  of  passion  in  her 
voice,  nor  see  the  whole  strength  of  her  soul  rise  in  her 
eyes  when  his  lips  met  hers. 

There  was  something  grand  and  tragic  in  her  suffering, 
in  her  realisation  of  all  that  he  had  taken  from  her  by 
his  distrust.  She  sank  back  on  her  couch,  clasping  her 
hands  together  so  tightly  that  the  veins  showed  clearly 
beneath  the  olive  skin.  As  she  tried  to  overcome  her 
emotion,  the  magnificent  outline  of  her  face  was  enno- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  243 

bled  by  her  pain,  the  lids  closed  over  her  dark  eyes,  and 
the  beautiful  lips  set  themselves  sternly  together,  as 
though  resolved  that  no  syllable  should  pass  them  which 
could  hurt  him,  even  though  they  could  not  formulate 
the  words  he  would  have  given  his  soul  to  hear. 

Giovanni  knelt  beside  her,  and  gazed  into  her  face. 
He  knew  she  had  not  fainted,  and  he  was  almost  glad 
that  for  a  moment  he  could  not  see  her  eyes.  Tenderly, 
timidly,  he  put  out  his  hand  and  laid  it  on  her  clasped 
fingers,  then  drew  it  back  again  very  quickly,  as  though 
suddenly  remembering  that  the  action  might  pain  her. 
Her  heavy  hair  was  plaited  into  a  thick  black  coil  that 
fell  upon  the  arm  of  the  couch.  He  bent  lower  and 
pressed  his  lips  upon  the  silken  tress,  noiselessly,  fearing 
to  disturb  her,  fearing  lest  she  should  even  notice  it.  He 
had  lost  all  his  pride  and  strength  and  dominating  power 
of  character  and  he  felt  himself  unworthy  to  touch  her. 

But  he  was  too  strong  a  man  to  continue  long  in  such 
a  state.  Before  Corona  opened  her  eyes,  he  had  risen  to 
his  feet  and  stood  at  some  distance  from  her,  resting  his 
arm  upon  the  chimney-piece,  watching  her  still,  but 
with  an  expression  which  showed  that  a  change  had 
taken  place  in  him,  and  that  his  resolute  will  had  once 
more  asserted  itself. 

"  Corona !  "  he  said  at  last,  in  a  voice  that  was  almost 
calm. 

Without  changing  her  position  she  looked  up  at  him. 
She  had  been  conscious  that  he  had  left  her  side,  and  she 
experienced  a  physical  sensation  of  relief. 

"Corona,"  he  repeated,  when  he  saw  that  she  heard 
him,  "I  do  not  complain.  It  is  all  my  fault  and  my 
doing.  Only,  let  it  not  be  hate,  dear.  I  will  not  touch 
you,  I  will  not  molest  you.  I  will  pray  that  you  may 
love  me  again.  I  will  try  and  do  such  things  as  may 
make  you  love  me  as  you  did  once.  Forgive  me,  if  my 
kisses  hurt  you.  I  did  not  know  they  would,  but  I  have 
seen  it.  I  am  not  a  brute.  If  I  were,  you  would  put 
something  of  the  human  into  my  heart.  It  shall  never 
happen  again,  that  I  forget.  Our  life  must  begin  again. 
The  old  Giovanni  was  your  husband,  and  is  dead.  It  is  for 
me  to  win  another  love  from  you.  Shall  it  be  so,  dear? 
Is  it  not  to  be  all  different  —  even  to  my  very  name?" 


244  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"All,  all  different,"  repeated  Corona  in  a  low  voice. 
"  Oh,  how  could  I  be  so  unkind !  How  could  I  show  you 
what  I  felt?" 

Suddenly,  and  without  the  least  warning,  she  sprang 
to  her  feet  and  made  two  steps  towards  him.  The  im 
pulse  was  there,  but  the  reality  was  gone.  Her  arms 
were  stretched  out,  and  there  was  a  look  of  supreme 
anguish  in  her  eyes.  She  stopped  short,  then  turned 
away  once  more,  and  as  she  sank  upon  the  couch,  bury 
ing  her  face  in  the  cushions,  the  long  restrained  tears 
broke  forth,  and  she  sobbed  as  though  her  heart  must 
break. 

Giovanni  wished  that  his  own  suffering  could  find  such 
an  outlet,  but  there  was  no  such  relief  possible  for  his 
hardy  masculine  nature.  He  could  not  bear  the  sight  of 
her  grief,  and  yet  he  knew  that  he  could  not  comfort  her, 
that  to  lay  his  hand  upon  her  forehead  would  only  add  a 
new  sting  to  the  galling  wound.  He  turned  his  face  away 
and  leaned  against  the  heavy  chimney-piece,  longing  to 
shut  out  the  sound  of  her  sobs  from  his  ears,  submitting 
to  a  torture  that  might  well  have  expiated  a  greater  mis 
deed  than  his.  The  time  was  past  when  he  could  feel 
that  an  unbroken  chain  of  evidence  had  justified  him  in 
doubting  and  accusing  Corona.  He  knew  the  woman  he 
had  injured  better  now  than  he  had  known  her  then,  for 
he  understood  the  whole  depth  and  breadth  of  the  love  he 
had  so  ruthlessly  destroyed.  It  was  incredible  to  him, 
now,  that  he  should  ever  have  mistrusted  a  creature  so 
noble,  so  infinitely  grander  than  himself.  Every  tear  she 
shed  fell  like  molten  fire  upon  his  heart,  every  sob  that 
echoed  through  the  quiet  room  was  a  reproach  that  racked 
his  heart-strings  and  penetrated  to  the  secret  depths  of 
his  soul.  He  could  neither  undo  what  he  had  done  nor 
soothe  the  pain  inflicted  by  his  actions.  He  could  only 
stand  there,  and  submit  patiently  to  the  suffering  of  his 
expiation. 

The  passionate  outburst  subsided  at  last,  and  Corona 
lay  pale  and  silent  upon  her  cushions.  She  knew  what 
he  felt,  and  pitied  him  more  than  herself. 

"  It  is  foolish  of  me  to  cry, "  she  said  presently.  "  It 
cannot  help  you." 

"Help  me?"  exclaimed  Giovanni,  turning  suddenly. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  245 

"  It  is  not  I,  it  is  you.  I  would  have  died  to  save  you 
those  tears." 

"  I  know  it  —  would  I  not  give  my  life  to  spare  you 
this?  And  I  will.  Come  and  sit  beside  me.  Take  my 
hand.  Kiss  me  —  be  your  own  self.  It  is  not  true  that 
your  kisses  hurt  me  —  it  shall  not  be  true " 

"You  do  not  mean  it,  dear,"  replied  Giovanni,  sadly. 
"I  know  how  true  it  is." 

"It  shall  not  be  true.  Am  I  a  devil  to  hurt  you  so? 
Was  it  all  your  fault?  Was  I  not  wrong  too?  In 
deed " 

"No,  my  beloved.  There  is  nothing  wrong  in  you. 
If  you  do  not  love  me " 

"I  do.     I  will,  in  spite  of  myself." 

"You  mean  it,  darling  —  I  know.  You  are  good 
enough,  even  for  that.  But  you  cannot.  It  must  be  all 
my  doing,  now." 

"I  must,"  cried  Corona,  passionately.  "Unless  I  love 
you,  I  shall  die.  I  was  wrong,  too,  you  shall  let  me  say 
it.  Was  I  not  mad  to  do  the  things  I  did?  What  man 
would  not  have  suspected?  Would  a  man  be  a  man  at 
all,  if  he  did  not  watch  the  woman  he  loves?  Would  love 
be  love  without  jealousy  when  there  seems  to  be  cause  for 
it?  Should  I  have  married  you,  had  I  thought  that  you 
would  be  so  careless  as  to  let  me  do  such  things  without 
interfering?  Was  it  not  my  fault  when  I  came  back  that 
night  and  would  not  tell  you  what  had  happened?  Was 
it  not  madness  to  ask  you  to  trust  me,  instead  of  telling 
you  all?  And  yet,"  she  turned  her  face  away,  "and  yet, 
it  hurt  me  so!  " 

"  You  shall  not  blame  yourself,  Corona.  It  was  all  my 
fault." 

"Come  and  sit  here,  beside  me.  There  —  take  my 
hand.  Does  it  tremble?  Do  I  draw  it  away?  Am  I  not 
glad  that  it  should  rest  in  yours?  Look  at  me  —  am  I  not 
glad?  Giovanni  —  dear  husband  —  true  love!  Look  into 
my  eyes.  Do  you  not  see  that  I  love  you?  Why  do  you 
shake  your  head  and  tremble?  It  is  true,  I  tell  you." 

Suddenly  the  forced  smile  faded  from  her  face,  the 
artificial  expression  she  tried  so  pathetically  to  make  real, 
disappeared,  and  gave  place  to  a  look  of  horror  and  fear. 
She  drew  back  her  hand  and  turned  desperately  away. 


246  SANT*   ILAEIO. 

"I  am  lying,  lying  —  and  to  you!  "  she  moaned.  "Oh 
God !  have  mercy,  for  I  am  the  most  miserable  woman  in 
the  world ! " 

Giovanni  sat  still,  resting  his  chin  upon  his  hand  and 
staring  at  the  lire.  His  hopes  had  risen  for  a  moment, 
and  had  fallen  again,  if  possible  more  completely  than 
before.  Every  line  of  his  strongly-marked  face  betrayed 
the  despair  that  overwhelmed  him.  And  yet  he  was  no 
longer  weak,  as  he  had  been  the  first  time.  He  was  won 
dering  at  the  hidden  depths  of  Corona's  nature  which  had 
so  suddenly  become  visible.  He  comprehended  the  mag 
nitude  of  a  passion  which  in  being  extinguished  could 
leave  such  emotions  behind,  and  he  saw  with  awful  dis 
tinctness  the  beauty  of  what  he  had  lost  and  the  depth 
of  the  abyss  by  which  he  was  separated  from  it.  Only 
a  woman  who  had  loved  to  distraction  could  make  such 
desperate  efforts  to  revive  an  affection  that  was  dead; 
only  a  woman  capable  of  the  most  lofty  devotion  could 
sink  her  pride  and  her  own  agony,  in  the  attempt  to  make 
the  man  she  had  loved  forgive  himself.  He  could  have 
borne  her  reproaches  more  easily  than  the  sight  of  her 
anguish,  but  she  would  not  reproach  him.  He  could 
have  borne  her  hatred  almost  better  than  such  unselfish 
forgiveness,  and  yet  she  had  forgiven  him.  For  the  first 
time  in  his  life  he  wished  that  he  might  die  —  he,  who 
loved  life  so  dearly.  Perhaps  it  would  be  easier  for  her 
to  see  him  dead  at  her  feet  than  to  feel  that  he  must 
always  be  near  her  and  that  she  could  not  love  him. 

"It  is  of  no  use,  dear,"  he  said,  at  last.  "I  was  right. 
The  old  Giovanni  is  dead.  We  must  begin  our  life  again. 
Will  you  let  me  try?  Will  you  let  me  do  my  best  to  live 
for  you  and  to  raise  up  a  new  love  in  your  heart?" 

"  Can  you?  Can  we  go  back  to  the  old  times  when  we 
first  met?  Can  you?  Can  I?" 

"If  you  will " 

"If  I  will?  Is  there  anything  I  would  not  do  to  gain 
that  ?  " 

"Our  lives  may  become  so  different  from  what  they 
now  are,  as  to  make  it  more  easy,"  said  Giovanni.  "Do 
you  realise  how  everything  will  be  changed  when  we  have 
given  up  this  house?  Perhaps  it  is  better  that  it  should 
be  so,  after  all." 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  247 

"  Yes  —  far  better.     Oh,  I  am  so  sorry  for  you !  " 

"  Who  pities,  may  yet  love,"  he  said  in  low  tones. 

Corona  did  not  make  any  answer,  but  for  many  minutes 
lay  watching  the  dancing  flames.  Giovanni  knew  that  it 
would  be  wiser  to  say  nothing  more  which  could  recall 
the  past,  and  when  he  spoke  again  it  was  to  ask  her  opin 
ion  once  more  concerning  the  best  course  to  pursue  in 
regard  to  the  property. 

"  I  still  think, "  answered  Corona,  "  that  you  had  better 
do  nothing  for  the  present.  You  will  soon  know  what 
San  Giacinto  means  to  do.  You  may  be  sure  that  if  he 
has  any  rights  he  will  not  forget  to  press  them.  If  it 
comes  to  the  worst  and  you  are  quite  sure  that  he  is  the 
man  you  —  that  is  to  say,  your  father  —  can  give  up  every 
thing  without  a  suit.  It  is  useless  to  undertake  the  con 
sequences  of  a  misfortune  which  may  never  occur.  It 
would  be  reckless  to  resign  your  inheritance  without  a 
struggle,  when  San  Giacinto,  if  he  is  an  honest  man, 
would  insist  upon  the  case  being  tried  in  law." 

"  That  is  true.  I  will  take  your  advice.  I  am  so  much 
disturbed  about  other  things  that  I  am  inclined  to  go  to 
all  extremes  at  once.  Will  you  dine  with  us  this  even 


ing 


9" 


"I  think  not.  Give  me  one  more  day.  I  shall  be 
stronger  to-morrow." 

"  I  have  tired  you, "  exclaimed  Giovanni  in  a  tone  of 
self-reproach.  Corona  did  not  answer  the  remark,  but 
held  out  her  hand  with  a  gentle  smile. 

"Good-night,  dear,"  she  said. 

An  almost  imperceptible  expression  of  pain  passed 
quickly  over  Giovanni's  face  as  he  touched  her  fingers 
with  his  lips.  Then  he  left  the  room  without  speaking 
again. 

In  some  respects  he  was  glad  that  he  had  induced 
Corona  to  express  herself.  He  had  no  illusions  left,  for 
he  knew  the  worst  and  understood  that  if  his  wife  was 
ever  to  love  him  again  there  must  be  a  new  wooing.  It 
is  not  necessary  to  dwell  upon  what  he  felt,  for  in  the 
course  of  the  conversation  he  had  not  been  able  to  con 
ceal  his  feelings.  Disappointment  had  come  upon  him 
very  suddenly,  and  might  have  been  followed  by  terrible 
consequences,  had  he  not  foreseen,  as  in  a  dream  of  the 


248  SANT'  ILARIO. 

future,  a  possibility  of  winning  back  Corona's  love.  The 
position  in  which  they  stood  with  regard  to  each  other 
was  only  possible  because  they  were  exceptional  people 
and  had  both  loved  so  well  that  they  were  willing  to  do 
anything  rather  than  forego  the  hope  of  loving  again. 
Another  man  would  have  found  it  hard  to  own  himself 
wholly  in  the  wrong;  a  woman  less  generous  would  have 
either  pretended  successfully  that  she  still  loved,  or 
would  not  have  acknowledged  that  she  suffered  so  keenly 
in  finding  her  affection  dead.  Perhaps,  too,  if  there  had 
been  less  frankness  there  might  have  been  less  difficulty 
in  reviving  the  old  passion,  for  love  has  strange  ways  of 
hiding  himself,  and  sometimes  shows  himself  in  ways 
even  more  unexpected. 

A  profound  student  of  human  nature  would  have  seen 
that  a  mere  return  to  the  habit  of  pleasant  intercourse 
could  not  suffice  to  forge  afresh  such  a  bond  as  had  been 
broken,  where  two  such  persons  were  concerned.  Some 
thing  more  was  necessary.  It  was  indispensable  that 
some  new  force  should  come  into  play,  to  soften  Corona's 
strong  nature  and  to  show  Giovanni  in  his  true  light. 
Unfortunately  for  them  such  a  happy  conclusion  was 
scarcely  to  be  expected.  Even  if  the  question  of  the 
Saracinesca  property  were  decided  against  them,  an  issue 
which,  at  such  a  time,  was  far  from  certain,  they  would 
still  be  rich.  Poverty  might  have  drawn  them  together 
again,  but  they  could  not  be  financially  ruined.  Corona 
would  have  all  her  own  fortune,  while  Giovanni  was  more 
than  well  provided  for  by  what  his  mother  had  left  him. 
The  blow  would  tell  far  more  heavily  upon  Giovanni's 
pride  than  upon  his  worldly  wealth,  severe  as  the  loss 
must  be  in  respect  of  the  latter.  It  is  impossible  to  say 
whether  Corona  might  not  have  suffered  as  much  as  Gio 
vanni  himself,  had  the  prospect  of  such  a  catastrophe 
presented  itself  a  few  weeks  earlier.  At  present  it 
affected  her  very  little.  The  very  name  of  Saracinesca 
was  disagreeable  to  her  hearing,  and  the  house  she  lived 
in  had  lost  all  its  old  charm  for  her.  She  would  willingly 
have  left  Kome  to  travel  for  a  year  or  two  rather  than 
continue  to  inhabit  a  place  so  full  of  painful  recollec 
tions;  she  would  gladly  have  seen  another  name  upon 
the  cards  she  left  at  her  friends'  houses  —  even  the  once 


SANT'  ILABIO.  249 

detested  name  of  Astrardente.  When  she  had  married 
Giovanni  she  had  not  been  conscious  that  she  became 
richer  than  before.  When  one  had  everything,  what 
difference  could  a  few  millions  more  bring  into  life?  It 
was  almost  a  pity  that  they  could  not  become  poor  and 
be  obliged  to  bear  together  the  struggles  and  privations 
of  poverty. 


CHAPTER   XVII. 

San  Giacinto  and  Flavia  were  married  on  Saturday  the 
thirtieth  of  November,  thereby  avoiding  the  necessity  of 
paying  a  fee  for  being  united  during  Advent,  much  to 
the  satisfaction  of  Prince  Montevarchi.  The  wedding 
was  a  brilliant  affair,  and  if  the  old  prince's  hospitality 
left  something  to  be  desired,  the  display  of  liveries, 
coaches  and  family  silver  was  altogether  worthy  of  so 
auspicious  an  occasion.  Everybody  was  asked,  and 
almost  everybody  went,  from  the  Saracinesca  to  Anas- 
tase  Gouache,  from  Valdarno  to  Arnoldo  Meschini. 
Even  Spicca  was  there,  as  melancholy  as  usual,  but  evi 
dently  interested  in  the  proceedings.  He  chanced  to  find 
himself  next  to  Gouache  in  the  crowd. 

"  I  did  not  expect  to  see  you  here, "  he  remarked. 

"  I  have  been  preserved  from  a  variety  of  dangers  in 
order  to  assist  at  the  ceremony, "  answered  the  Zouave, 
with  a  laugh.  "At  one  time  I  thought  it  more  likely 
that  I  should  be  the  person  of  importance  at  a  funeral." 

"  So  did  I.  However,  it  could  not  be  helped."  Spicca 
did  not  smile. 

"  You  seem  to  regret  it, "  observed  Gouache,  who  knew 
his  companion's  eccentric  nature. 

"  Only  on  general  principles.  For  the  rest,  I  am  de 
lighted  to  see  you.  Come  and  breakfast  with  me  when 
this  affair  is  over.  We  will  drink  to  the  happiness  of 
two  people  who  will  certainly  be  very  unhappy  before 
long." 

"Ourselves?" 

"No.     The  bride  and  bridegroom.     'Ye,  who  enter, 


250  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

leave  all  hope  behind ! '  How  can  people  be  so  foolish 
as  to  enter  into  an  engagement  from  which  there  is  no 
issue?  The  fools  are  not  all  dead  yet." 

"I  am  one  of  them,"  replied  Gouache. 

"  You  will  probably  have  your  wish.  Providence  has 
evidently  preserved  you  from  sudden  death  in  order  to  de 
stroy  you  by  lingering  torture.  Is  the  wedding  day  fixed?  " 

"I  wish  it  were." 

"And  the  bride?" 

"Ho  wean  I  tell?" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that,  as  an  opinion,  you  would 
rather  be  married  than  not?  The  only  excuse  for  the 
folly  of  marrying  is  the  still  greater  folly  of  loving  a 
woman  enough  to  marry  her.  Of  course,  a  man  who  is 
capable  of  that,  is  capable  of  anything.  Here  comes  the 
bride  with  her  father.  Think  of  being  tied  to  her  until 
a  merciful  death  part  you.  Think  of  being  son-in-law 
to  that  old  man,  until  heaven  shall  be  pleased  to  remove 
him.  Think  of  calling  that  stout  English  lady,  mother- 
in-law,  until  she  is  at  last  overtaken  by  apoplexy.  Think 
of  calling  all  those  relations  brothers  and  sisters,  Ascanio, 
Onorato,  Andrea,  Isabella,  Bianca,  Faiistina!  It  is  a 
day's  work  to  learn  their  names  and  titles.  She  wears 
a  veil  —  to  hide  her  satisfaction  —  a  wreath  of  orange 
flowers,  artificial,  too,  made  of  paper  and  paste  and  wire, 
symbols  of  innocence,  of  course,  pliable  and  easily 
patched  together.  She  looks  down,  lest  the  priest  should 
see  that  her  eyes  are  laughing.  Her  father  is  whispering 
words  of  comfort  and  encouragement  into  her  ear.  'Mind 
your  expression, '  he  is  saying,  no  doubt  —  '  you  must  not 
look  as  though  you  were  being  sacrificed,  nor  as  though 
you  were  too  glad  to  be  married,  for  everybody  is  watch 
ing  you.  Do  not  say,  I  will,  too  loudly  nor  inaudibly 
either,  and  remember  that  you  are  my  daughter. '  Very 
good  advice.  Now  she  kneels  down  and  he  crosses  to 
the  other  side.  She  bends  her  head  very  low.  She  is 
looking  under  her  elbow  to  see  the  folds  of  her  train. 
You  see  —  she  moves  her  heel  to  make  the  gown  fall 
better  —  I  told  you  so.  A  pretty  figure,  all  in  white, 
before  the  great  altar  with  the  lights,  and  the  priest  in 
his  robes,  and  the  organ  playing,  and  that  Hercules  in  a 
black  coat  for  a  husband.  Now  she  looks  up.  The  rings 


SANT'  ILARIO.  251 

are  there  on  the  gold  salver  upon  the  altar.  She  has  not 
seen  hers,  and  is  wondering  whether  it  is  of  plain  gold, 
or  a  band  of  diamonds,  like  the  Princess  Valdarno's. 
Now  then  —  ego  conjungo  vos  —  the  devil,  my  friend,  it 
is  an  awful  sight !  " 

"  Cynic !  "  muttered  Gouache,  with  a  suppressed  laugh. 

"  There  —  it  is  done  now,  and  she  is  already  thinking 
what  it  will  be  like  to  dine  alone  with  him  this  evening, 
and  several  thousand  evenings  hereafter.  Cynic,  you 
say?  There  are  no  more  cynics.  They  are  all  married, 
and  must  turn  stoics  if  they  can.  Let  us  be  off.  No  — 
there  is  mass.  Well  then,  go  down  on  your  knees  and 
pray  for  their  souls,  for  they  are  in  a  bad  case.  Mar 
riage  is  Satan's  hot-house  for  poisonous  weeds.  If  any 
thing  can  make  a  devil  of  an  innocent  girl  it  is  marriage. 
If  anything  can  turn  an  honest  man  into  a  fiend  it  is 
matrimony.  Pray  for  them,  poor  creatures,  if  there  is 
any  available  praying  power  left  in  you,  after  attending 
to  the  wants  of  your  own  soul,  which,  considering  your 
matrimonial  intentions,  I  should  think  very  improbable." 

Gouache  looked  at  his  companion  curiously,  for  Spicca's 
virulence  astonished  him.  He  was  not  at  all  intimate 
with  the  man  and  had  never  heard  him  express  his 
views  so  clearly  upon  any  subject.  Unlike  most  people, 
he  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  the  melancholy  Italian. 

"From  the  way  you  talk,"  he  remarked,  "one  might 
almost  imagine  that  you  had  been  married  yourself." 

Spicca  looked  at  him  with  an  odd  expression,  in  which 
there  was  surprise  as  well  as  annoyance,  and  instead  of 
making  any  answer,  crossed  himself  and  knelt  down  upon 
the  marble  pavement.  Gouache  followed  his  example 
instinctively. 

Half  an  hour  later  the  crowd  moved  slowly  out  of  the 
church,  and  those  who  had  carriages  waited  in  the  huge 
vestibule  while  the  long  line  of  equipages  moved  up  to 
the  gates.  Gouache  escaped  from  Spicca  in  the  hope  of 
getting  a  sight  of  Faustina  before  she  drove  away  with 
her  mother  in  one  of  the  numerous  Montevarchi  coaches. 
Sant'  Ilario  and  Corona  were  standing  ~by  one  of  the 
pillars,  conversing  in  low  tones. 

"Montevarchi  looked  as  though  he  knew  it,"  said 
Giovanni. 


252  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

"What?"  asked  Corona,  quietly. 

"  That  his  daughter  is  the  future  Princess  Saracinesca." 

"It  remains  to  be  seen  whether  he  is  right." 

Gouache  had  been  pushed  by  the  crowd  into  one  of  the 
angles  of  the  pilaster  while  the  two  speakers  stood  before 
one  of  the  four  pillars  of  which  it  was  built  up.  The 
words  astonished  him  so  much  that  he  forced  his  way 
out  until  he  could  see  the  Princess  of  Sant'  Ilario's 
beautiful  profile  dark  against  the  bright  light  of  the 
street.  She  was  still  speaking,  but  he  could  no  longer 
hear  her  voice ;  some  acoustic  peculiarity  of  the  columns 
had  in  all  probability  been  the  means  of  conveying  to 
him  the  fragment  of  conversation  he  had  overheard. 
Avoiding  recognition,  he  slipped  away  through  an  open 
ing  in  the  throng  and  just  succeeded  in  reaching  the  gate 
as  the  first  of  the  Montevarchi  carriages  drew  up.  The 
numerous  members  of  the  family  were  gathered  on  the 
edge  of  the  crowd,  and  Gouache  managed  to  speak  a  few 
words  with  Faustina. 

The  girl's  delicate  face  lighted  up  when  she  was  con 
scious  of  his  presence,  and  she  turned  her  eyes  lovingly 
to  his.  They  met  often  now  in  public,  though  San  Gia- 
cinto  did  his  best  to  keep  them  apart. 

"Here  is  a  secret,"  said  Gouache  in  a  quick  whisper. 
"  I  have  just  heard  Sant'  Ilario  telling  his  wife  that  your 
sister  is  the  future  Princess  Saracinesca.  What  does  it 
mean?  " 

Faustina  looked  at  him  in  the  utmost  astonishment. 
It  was  clear  that  she  knew  nothing  of  the  matter  at 
present. 

"  You  must  have  heard  wrong, "  she  answered. 

"Will  you  come  to  early  mass  to-morrow?"  he  asked 
Imrriedly,  for  he  had  no  time  to  lose. 

"I  will  try  —  if  it  is  possible.  It  will  be  easier  now 
that  San  Giacinto  is  to  be  away.  He  knows  everything, 
J  am  sure."- 

"  San  Giacinto?"  It  was  Gouache's  turn  to  be  aston 
ished.  But  explanations  were  impossible  in  such  a 
crowd,  and  Faustina  was  already  moving  away. 

"Say  nothing  about  what  I  have  told  you,"  Anastase 
whispered  as  she  left  him.  She  bowed  her  lovely  head 
in  silence  and  passed  on. 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  253 

And  so  the  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto  took  Flavia 
Monte varchi  for  his  wife,  and  all  Rome  looked  on  and 
smiled,  and  told  imaginary  stories  of  his  former  life, 
acknowledging,  nevertheless,  that  Flavia  had  done  very 
well  —  the  stock  phrase  —  since  there  was  no  doubt  what 
ever  but  that  the  gigantic  bridegroom  was  the  cousin  of 
the  Saracinesca,  and  rich  into  the  bargain.  Amidst  all 
the  gossip  and  small  talk  no  one,  however,  was  found 
who  possessed  enough  imagination  to  foretell  what  in 
reality  was  very  imminent,  namely,  that  the  Marchese 
might  turn  out  to  be  the  prince. 

The  last  person  to  suspect  such  a  revelation  was  San 
Giacinto  himself.  He  had  indeed  at  one  time  entertained 
some  hopes  of  pushing  forward  a  claim  which  was  cer 
tainly  founded  upon  justice  if  not  upon  good  law ;  but  since 
Montevarchi  had  kept  the  documents  relating  to  the  case 
for  many  days,  and  had  then  returned  them  without 
mentioning  the  subject  to  his  future  son-in-law,  the  lat 
ter  had  thought  it  wiser  to  let  the  matter  rest  for  the 
present,  shrewdly  suspecting  that  such  a  man  as  Monte 
varchi  would  not  readily  let  such  an  opportunity  of 
enriching  his  own  daughter  slip  through  his  fingers.  It 
has  been  already  seen  •  that  Montevarchi  purposely  pre 
vented  San  Giacinto  from  seeing  the  papers  in  order  that 
he  might  be  in  reality  quite  innocent  of  any  complicity 
in  the  matter  when  the  proceedings  were  instituted,  a 
point  very  important  for  the  success  of  the  suit. 

Half  an  hour  afterwards  San  Giacinto  was  closeted 
with  the  old  prince  in  the  latter' s  study,  which  looked 
more  than  usually  dismal  by  contrast  with  the  brilliant 
assemblage  in  the  drawing-rooms. 

"Now  that  we  are  alone,  my  dear  son,"  began  Monte 
varchi,  who  for  a  wonder  had  not  changed  his  coat  since 
the  ceremony,  "  now  that  you  are  really  my  son,  I  have 
an  important  communication  to  make." 

San  Giacinto  sat  down  and  any  one  might  have  seen 
from  the  expression  of  his  square  jaw  and  determined 
mouth  that  he  was  prepared  for  battle.  He  did  not  trust 
his  father-in-law  in  the  least,  and  would  not  have  been 
surprised  if  he  had  made  an  attempt  to  get  ba,ck  the 
money  he  had  paid  into  the  lawyer's  hands  as  Flavia' s 
dowry.  But  San  Giacinto  had  taken  all  precautions  and 


254  SANT'  ILARIO. 

knew  very  well  that  he  could  not  be  cheated.  Monte  - 
varchi  continued  in  a  bland  voice. 

"I  have  kept  the  matter  as  a  surprise  for  you,"  he 
said.  "  You  have  of  course  been  very  busy  during  these 
last  weeks  in  making  your  preparations  for  the  solemn 
ceremony  at  which  we  have  just  assisted.  It  was  there 
fore  impossible  for  you  to  attend  to  the  multifarious 
details  which  it  has  been  my  care,  my  privilege,  to  sift 
and  examine.  For  it  is  a  privilege  we  should  value 
highly  to  labour  for  those  we  love,  for  those  with  whom 
we  share  our  dearest  affections.  I  am  now  about  to  com 
municate  to  you  an  affair  of  the  highest  importance, 
which,  when  brought  to  a  successful  termination  will 
exercise  a  tremendous  influence  over  all  your  life.  Let 
me  say  beforehand,  however,  and  lest  you  should  suspect 
me  of  any  unworthy  motives,  that  I  expect  no  thanks, 
nor  any  share  in  the  immense  triumph  in  store  for  you. 
Do  not  be  surprised  if  I  use  somewhat  strong  language 
on  such  an  occasion.  I  have  examined  everything,  pre 
served  everything,  taken  the  best  legal  advice,  and  con 
sulted  those  without  whose  spiritual  counsel  I  enter  upon 
no  weighty  undertaking.  My  dear  son,  you,  and  none 
other,  are  the  real  and  rightful  Prince  Saracinesca." 

The  climax  to  the  long  preamble  was  so  unexpected 
that  San  Giacinto  uttered  a  loud  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Do  not  be  amazed  at  what  I  have  told  you,"  said 
Montevarchi.  "  The  documents  upon  which  the  claims 
of  the  Saracinesca  rest  were  drawn  up  by  a  wise  man. 
Although  he  had  not  at  that  time  any  intention  of  marry 
ing,  he  was  aware  that  with  heaven  all  things  are  possi 
ble,  and  introduced  a  clause  to  the  effect  that  if  he  should 
marry  and  leave  heirs  direct  of  his  body,  the  whole  deed 
was  to  be  null,  void  and  ineffectual.  I  do  not  know 
enough  of  your  family  history  to  understand  why  neither 
he  nor  his  son  nor  his  grandson  ever  made  any  attempt 
to  recover  their  birthright,  but  I  know  enough  of  law  to 
affirm  that  the  clause  is  still  good.  It  is  identical "  — 
the  prince  smiled  pleasantly  —  "it  is  identical  in  the 
original  and  in  the  copy  preserved  in  the  Chancery 
archives.  •  In  my  opinion  you  have  only  to  present  the 
two  documents  before  a  competent  court,  in  order  to 
obtain  a  unanimous  verdict  in  your  favour." 


SANT'  ILARIO.  255 

San  Giacinto  looked  hard  from  under  his  overhanging 
brows  at  the  old  man's  keen  face.  Then,  suddenly,  he 
stuck  his  heavy  fist  into  the  palm  of  his  left  hand,  and 
rose  from  his  chair,  a  gleam  of  savage  triumph  in  his 
eyes.  For  some  time  he  paced  the  room  in  silence. 

"I  wish  Giovanni  no  ill,  nor  his  father  either,"  he 
said  at  last. 

"  Heaven  forbid !  "  exclaimed  Montevarchi,  crossing 
himself.  "And  besides,  as  the  property  is  all  yours, 
that  would  be  of  no  use." 

San  Giacinto  stared  a  minute,  and  then  his  deep  voice 
rang  out  in  a  hearty  laugh.  He  had  an  intimate  convic 
tion  that  his  devout  father-in-law  was  quite  capable,  not 
only  of  wishing  evil  to  his  neighbour,  but  of  putting  his 
wishes  into  execution  if  his  interests  could  be  advanced 
thereby. 

"  No, "  he  said,  when  his  merriment  had  subsided,  "  I 
wish  them  no  evil.  But,  after  all,  they  must  know 
what  is  contained  in  the  papers  they  have  in  their  pos 
session,  and  they  must  know  that  I  am  the  prince,  and 
that  they  have  kept  me  out  of  my  inheritance.  I  will 
go  and  tell  them  so.  Since  there  is  no  doubt  about  the 
case,  I  do  not  see  why  I  should  wait." 

"Nor  I,"  answered  Montevarchi,  with  the  air  of  a 
man  who  has  done  his  .part  and  expects  others  to  finish 
what  he  has  begun. 

"  It  is  fortunate  that  we  have  decided  to  go  to  Frascati 
instead  of  making  a  journey  to  the  end  of  Europe.  Not 
but  that,  as  I  have  never  seen  Paris,  I  would  have  liked 
the  trip  well  enough." 

"  You  will  find  Paris  pleasanter  when  you  are  Prince 
Saracinesca." 

"That  is  true,"  replied  San  Giacinto,  thoughtfully. 
There  was  the  deep  light  of  anticipated  triumph  in  his 
eyes.  "  Will  you  see  that  the  proper  preliminary  steps 
are  taken?"  he  asked  presently. 

"  I  will  engage  lawyers  for  you.  But  you  will  have  to 
do  the  rest  yourself.  The  lawyers  might  go  out  and  talk 
it  over  with  you  in  Frascati.  After  all,  you  are  a  young 
man  of  good  sense,  and  will  not  have  any  sentiment  about 
being  alone  with  your  wife." 

"  For  the  matter  of  that,  I  anticipate  much  pleasure  in 


256  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

the  society  of  my  wife,  but  when  there  is  so  much  meat 
boiling,  somebody  must  watch  the  pot,  as  we  used  to  say 
in  Naples.  I  am  a  practical  man,  you  know." 

"  Ah,  that  is  a  great  quality,  one  of  the  very  greatest ! 
If  I  had  spent  my  life  in  a  perpetual  honeymoon  with  the 
princess,  Casa  Montevarchi  would  not  be  what  it  is,  my 
son.  I  have  always  given  my  best  attention  to  the  affairs 
of  my  household,  and  I  expect  that  you  will  continue 
the  tradition." 

"Never  fear!  If,  by  continuing  the  tradition,  you 
mean  that  I  should  get  what  is  mine,  I  will  not  disap 
point  you.  Can  you  tell  me  when  the  case  can  be  tried, 
and  in  what  court  it  will  be  heard?" 

"With  my  influence,"  replied  Montevarchi,  "the  case 
may  be  put  through  at  once.  A  month  will  suffice  for 
the  preliminaries,  a  day  for  the  hearing.  Everything  is 
settled  at  once  by  the  exhibition  of  the  documents  which 
provide  for  you  in  the  most  explicit  terms.  You  can  come 
in  from  the  country  and  see  them  for  yourself  if  you 
please.  But  I  consider  that  quite  unnecessary.  The 
lawyers  will  settle  everything." 

"  Pardon  my  curiosity,  but  I  would  like  to  know  why 
you  thought  it  best  not  to  tell  me  anything  of  the  matter 
until  now." 

"  My  dear  son,  you  were  so  busy  with  the  preparations 
for  your  marriage,  and  the  questions  involved  seemed  at 
first  so  doubtful  that  I  thought  it  best  not  to  trouble  you 
with  them.  Then,  when  I  knew  the  whole  truth  the  time 
was  so  near  that  I  preferred  to  give  you  the  information 
as  a  sort  of  wedding  present. " 

"A  magnificent  one  indeed,  for  which  I  cannot  find 
words  to  express  my  gratitude." 

"No,  no!  Do  not  talk  of  gratitude.  I  feel  that  I  am 
fulfilling  a  sacred  duty  in  restoring  to  the  fatherless  his 
birthright.  It  is  an  act  of  divine  justice  for  the  execu 
tion  of  which  I  have  been  chosen  as  the  humble  instru 
ment.  Do  your  duty  by  my  dear  daughter,  and  render 
your  gratitude  to  heaven  —  quce  sunt  Ccesaris,  Ccesari,  et 
quce  sunt  Dei,  Deo!  Would  that  we  could  all  live  by 
that  rule !  " 

"  To  Saracinesca  what  is  his,  and  to  San  Giacinto  that 
which  belongs  to  him  —  that  is  what  you  mean?" 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  257 

"  Yes,  my  good  son.  I  am  glad  to  see  that  you  under 
stand  Latin.  It  does  you  credit  that  amidst  the  misfor 
tunes  of  your  early  life  you  should  have  so  improved 
yourself  as  to  possess  the  education  necessary  to  the  high 
rank  you  are  about  to  assume.  I  tell  you  frankly  that,  in 
spite  of  your  personal  qualities,  in  spite  of  the  great 
name  and  possessions  which  will  soon  be  yours,  if  I  had 
not  distinguished  in  you  that  refinement  and  instruction 
without  which  no  gentleman  is  worthy  of  the  name,  I 
would  not  have  bestowed  upon  you  the  hand  of  that  sweet 
creature  whom  I  have  cherished  as  a  flower  in  the  house 
of  my  old  age." 

San  Giacinto  had  made  a  study  of  old  Montevarchi 
during  a  month  past,  and  was  not  in  the  least  deceived 
by  his  rounded  periods  and  well  expressed  moral  senti 
ments.  But  he  smiled  and  bowed,  enjoying  the  idea  of 
attributing  such  flattery  to  himself  in  proportion  as  he 
felt  that  he  was  unworthy  of  it.  He  had  indeed  done 
his  best  to  acquire  a  certain  amount  of  instruction,  as 
his  father-in-law  called  it,  and  his  tastes  were  certainly 
not  so  coarse  as  might  have  been  expected,  but  he  was 
too  strong  a  man  to  be  easily  deceived  concerning  his 
own  powers,  and  he  knew  well  enough  that  he  owed  his 
success  to  his  fortune.  He  saw,  too,  that  Montevarchi, 
in  giving  him  Flavia,  had  foreseen  the  possibility  of  his 
claiming  the  rights  of  his  cousins,  and  if  he  had  not  been 
thoroughly  satisfied  with  his  choice  he  would  have  now 
felt  that  he  had  been  deceived.  He  had  no  regrets,  how 
ever,  for  he  felt  that  even  had  he  already  enjoyed  the 
titles  and  wealth  he  was  so  soon  to  claim,  he  would 
nevertheless  have  chosen  Flavia  for  his  wife.  Of  all  the 
young  girls  he  had  seen  in  Rome  she  was  the  only  one 
who  really  attracted  him;  a  fact  due,  perhaps,  to  her 
being  more  natural  than  the  rest,  or  at  least  more  like 
what  he  thought  a  woman  should  naturally  be.  His 
rough  nature  would  not  have  harmonised  with  Faustina's 
character ;  still  less  could  he  have  understood  and  appre 
ciated  a  woman  like  Corona,  who  was  indeed  almost 
beyond  the  comprehension  of  Giovanni,  her  own  husband. 
San  Giacinto  was  almost  a  savage,  compared  with  the 
young  men  of  the  class  to  which  he  now  belonged,  and 
there  was  something  wild  and  half -tamed  in  Flavia  Mon- 

s 


258  SANT'  ILARIO. 

tevarchi  which  had  fascinated  him  from  the  first,  and 
held  him  by  that  side  of  his  temperament  by  which  alone 
savages  are  governed. 

Had  the  bringing  of  the  suit  been  somewhat  hastened 
it  is  not  impossible  that  San  Giacinto  and  his  wife  might 
have  driven  up  to  the  ancient  towers  of  Saracinegca  on 
that  Saturday  afternoon,  as  Giovanni  and  Corona  had 
done  on  their  wedding  day  two  years  and  a  half  earlier. 
As  it  was,  they  were  to  go  out  to  Frascati  to  spend  a 
week  in  Montevarchi's  villa,  as  the  prince  and  princess 
and  all  their  married  children  had  done  before  them. 

"  Eh !  what  a  satisfaction !  "  exclaimed  Flavia,  with  a 
sigh  of  relief  as  the  carriage  rolled  out  of  the  deep  arch 
way  under  the  palace.  Then  she  laughed  a  little  and 
looked  up  at  her  husband  out  of  the  corners  of  her  bright 
black  eyes,  after  which  she  produced  a  very  pretty  silver 
scent-bottle  which  her  mother  had  put  into  her  hand  as 
a  parting  gift.  She  looked  at  it,  turned  it  round,  opened 
it  and  at  last  smelled  the  contents. 

"  Ugh !  "  she  cried,  shutting  it  up  quickly  and  making 
a  wry  face.  "It  is  full  of  salts  —  horrible !  I  thought  it 
was  something  good  to  smell !  Did  she  think  I  was  going 
to  faint  on  the  way?  " 

"You  do  not  look  like  fainting,"  remarked  San  Gia 
cinto,  who  looked  gigantic  in  a  wide  fur  pelisse.  He  put 
out  his  great  hand,  which  closed  with  a  sort  of  rough 
tenderness  over  hers,  completely  hiding  it  as  well  as  the 
smelling-bottle  she  held.  "  So  it  is  a  satisfaction,  is  it?  " 
he  asked,  with  a  gleam  of  pleasure  in  his  deep-set  eyes. 

"If  you  had  been  educated  under  the  supervision  of 
the  eccellentissima  casa  Montevarchi,  you  would  under 
stand  what  a  blessed  institution  marriage  is!  You  — 
what  shall  I  call  you  —  your  name  is  Giovanni,  is  it 
not?" 

"  Yes  —  Giovanni.     Do  you  like  the  name?  " 

"  No  —  it  reminds  me  of  the  head  of  John  the  Baptist. 
I  will  call  you  —  let  me  see  —  Nino.  Yes  —  that  sounds 
so  small,  and  you  are  so  immensely  big.  You  are  Nino, 
in  future.  I  am  glad  you  are  big.  I  do  not  like  little 
men."  She  nestled  close  to  the  giant,  with  a  laugh  that 
pleased  him. 

San  Giacinto  suddenly  found  that  he  was  very  much 


SANT'  ILARIO.  259 

more  in  love  than  he  had  supposed.  His  life  had  been 
very  full  of  contrasts,  but  this  was  the  greatest  which 
had  yet  presented  itself.  He  remembered  a  bright  sum 
mer's  morning  a  few  years  earlier,  when  he  had  walked 
back  from  the  church  in  Aquila  with  Felice  Baldi  by  his 
side.  Poor  Felice !  She  had  worn  a  very  pretty  black 
silk  frock  with  a  fine  gold  chain  around  her  neck,  and  a 
veil  upon  her  head,  for  she  was  not  of  the  class  "  that 
wear  hats,"  as  they  say  in  Rome.  But  she  had  forced 
her  stout  hands  into  gloves,  and  Giovanni  the  innkeeper 
had  been  somewhat  proud  of  her  ladylike  appearance. 
Her  face  was  very  red  and  there  were  tears  of  pleasure 
and  timidity  in  her  eyes,  which  he  remembered  very  well. 
It  was  strange  that  she,  too,  should  have  been  proud  of 
her  husband's  size  and  strength.  Perhaps  all  women 
were  very  much  alike.  How  well  he  remembered  the 
wedding  collation,  the  little  yellow  cakes  with  a  drop  of 
hard  pink  sugar  in  the  middle  of  each,  the  bottles  of 
sweet  cordial  of  various  flavours,  cinnamon,  clove,  anise- 
seed  and  the  like,  the  bright  red  japanned  tray,  and  the 
cheaply  gaudy  plates  whereon  were  painted  all  manner 
of  impossible  flowers. 

Felice  was  dead,  buried  in  the  campo  santo  of  Aquila, 
with  its  whitewashed  walls  of  enclosure  and  its  appalling 
monuments  and  mortuary  emblems.  Poor  Felice!  She 
had  been  a  good  wife,  and  he  had  been  a  good  husband 
to  her.  She  was  such  a  simple  creature  that  he  could 
almost  fancy  her  spirit  shedding  tears  of  satisfied  pride  at 
seeing  her  Giovanni  married  to  a  princess,  rich  and 
about  to  be  metamorphosed  into  a  prince  himself.  She 
had  known  that  he  was  a  Marchese  of  a  great  family,  and 
had  often  begged  him  to  let  her  be  called  the  Signora 
Marchesa.  But  he  had  always  told  her  that  for  people  in 
their  position  it  was  absurd.  They  were  not  poor  for 
their  station;  indeed,  they  were  among  the  wealthiest  of 
their  class  in  Aquila.  He  had  promised  to  assert  his 
title  when  they  should  be  rich  enough,  but  poor  Felice 
had  died  too  soon.  Then  had  come  that  great  day  when 
Giovanni  had  won  in  the  lottery  —  Giovanni  who  had 
never  played  before  and  had  all  his  life  called  it  a  waste 
of  money  and  a  public  robbery.  But,  playing  once,  he 
had  played  high,  and  all  his  numbers  had  appeared  on 


260  SANT'  ILARIO. 

the  following  Saturday.  Two  hundred  thousand  francs 
in  a  day !  Such  luck  only  falls  to  the  lot  of  men  who  are 
born  under  destiny.  Giovanni  had  long  known  what  he 
should  do  if  he  only  possessed  the  capital.  The  winnings 
were  paid  in  cash,  and  in  a  fortnight  he  had  taken  up  a 
government  contract  in  the  province  of  Aquila.  Then 
came  another  and  another.  Everything  turned  to  gold 
in  his  hands,  and  in  two  years  he  was  a  rich  man. 

Alone  in  the  world,  with  his  two  little  boys,  and  pos 
sessed  of  considerable  wealth,  the  longing  had  come  over 
him  to  take  the  position  to  which  he  had  a  legitimate 
right,  a  position  which,  he  supposed,  would  not  interfere 
with  his  increasing  his  fortune  if  he  wished  to  do  so.  He 
had  left  the  children  under  the  supervision  of  old  Don 
Paolo,  the  curate,  and  had  come  to  Rome,  where  he  had 
lodged  in  an  obscure  hotel  until  he  had  fitted  himself  to 
appear  before  his  cousins  as  a  gentleman.  His  grave 
temper,  indomitable  energy,  and  natural  astuteness  had 
done  the  rest,  and  fortune  had  crowned  all  his  efforts. 
The  old  blood  of  the  Saracinesca  had  grown  somewhat 
coarse  by  the  admixture  of  a  stream  very  far  from  blue ; 
but  if  it  had  lost  in  some  respects  it  had  gained  in  others, 
and  the  type  was  not  wholly  low.  The  broad-shoul 
dered,  dark-complexioned  giant  was  not  altogether  un 
worthy  of  the  ancient  name,  and  he  knew  it  as  his  wife 
nestled  to  his  side.  He  loved  the  wild  element  in  her, 
but  most  of  all  he  loved  the  thoroughbred  stamp  of  her 
face,  the  delicacy  of  her  small  hands,  the  aristocratic  ring 
of  her  laughter,  for  these  all  told  him  that,  after  three 
generations  of  obscurity  he  had  risen  again  to  the  level 
whence  his  fathers  had  fallen. 

The  change  in  his  life  became  very  dear  to  him,  as  all 
these  things  passed  quickly  through  his  mind;  and  with 
the  consciousness  of  vivid  contrast  came  the  certainty 
that  he  loved  Flavia  far  better  than  he  had  believed  pos 
sible. 

"  And  what  shall  I  call  you?  "  he  asked,  rather  bluntly. 
He  did  not  quite  know  whether  it  would  be  wise  to  use 
any  term  of  endearment  or  not.  Indeed,  this  was  the 
weak  point  in  his  experience,  but  he  supplemented  the 
deficiency  by  a  rough  tenderness  which  was  far  from 
disagreeable  to  Flavia. 


SANT'  ILAKEO.  261 

"Anything  you  like,  dear,"  she  answered.  San  Gia- 
cinto  felt  the  blood  rush  to  his  head  with  pleasure  as 
he  heard  the  epithet. 

"  Anything?  "  he  asked,  with  a  very  unwonted  tremour 
in  his  voice. 

"  Anything  —  provided  you  will  love  me, "  she  replied. 
He  thought  he  had  never  seen  such  wicked,  fascinating 
eyes.  He  drew  her  face  to  his  and  looked  into  them  a 
moment,  his  own  blazing  suddenly  with  a  passion  wholly 
new  to  him. 

"  I  will  not  call  you  anything  —  instead  of  calling  you, 
I  will  kiss  you  —  so  —  is  it  not  better  than  any  name?" 

A  deep  blush  spread  over  Flavia's  face  and  then  sub 
sided  suddenly,  leaving  her  very  pale.  For  a  long  time 
neither  spoke  again. 

"Did  your  father  tell  you  the  news  before  we  left?" 
asked  San  Giacinto  at  last,  when  they  were  rolling  over 
the  Campagna  along  the  Via  Latina. 

"No  — what?" 

"  It  is  somewhat  remarkable  news.  If  you  are  afraid 
of  fainting,"  he  added,  with  rough  humour,  "hold  your 
bottle  of  salts  ready." 

Flavia  looked  up  uneasily,  wondering  whether  there 
were  anything  wrong  about  San  Giacinto.  She  knew 
very  well  that  her  father  had  been  glad  to  get  rid  of  her. 

"I  am  not  San  Giacinto  after  all,"  he  said  quietly. 
Flavia  started  and  drew  back. 

"  Who  are  you  then?  "  she  asked  quickly. 

"I  am  Prince  Saracinesca,  and  you  are  the  princess." 
He  spoke  very  calmly,  and  watched  her  face  to  see  the 
effect  of  the  news. 

"  I  wish  you  were !  "  she  exclaimed  nervously.  She 
wondered  whether  he  was  going  mad. 

"There  seems  to  be  no  doubt  about  it,"  he  answered, 
"  your  father  informed  me  of  the  fact  as  a  wedding  pres 
ent.  He  has  examined  all  the  papers  and  will  send  the 
lawyers  out  to  Frascati  to  prepare  the  case  with  me." 

He  told  her  the  whole  story  in  detail.  As  he  pro 
ceeded,  a  singular  expression  came  into  Flavia's  face, 
and  when  he  had  finished  she  broke  out  into  voluble  ex 
pressions  of  joy. 

"  I  always  knew  that  I  was  born  to  be  a  princess  —  I 


262  SANT*    ILARIO. 

mean  a  real  one!  How  could  I  be  anything  else?  Oh! 
I  am  so  happy,  and  you  are  such  a  darling  to  be  a  prince ! 
And  to  think  that  if  papa  had  not  discovered  the  papers, 
those  horrid  Sant'  Ilario  people  would  have  had  every 
thing.  Princess  Saracinesca!  Eh,  but  how  it  sounds! 
Almost  as  good  as  Orsini,  and  much  nicer  with  you,  you 
great  big,  splendid  lion!  Why  did  they  not  call  you 
Leone?  It  is  too  good  to  be  true!  And  I  always  hated 
Corona,  ever  since  I  was  a  little  girl  and  she  was  the 
Astrardente,  because  she  used  to  say  I  did  not  behave 
well  and  that  Faustina  was  much  prettier  —  I  heard  her 
say  so  when  I  was  behind  the  curtains.  Why  did  you 
not  find  it  out  ever  so  long  ago?  Think  what  a  wedding 
we  should  have  had,  just  like  Sant'  Ilario's !  But  it  was 
very  fine  after  all,  and  of  course  there  is  nothing  to  com 
plain  of.  Evviva !  Evviva !  Do  give  me  one  of  those 
cigarettes  —  I  never  smoked  in  my  life,  and  I  am  so 
happy  that  I  know  it  will  not  hurt  me ! " 

San  Giacinto  had  his  case  in  his  hand,  and  laughed  as 
he  presented  it  to  her.  Quiet  as  he  was  in  his  manner 
he  was  far  the  happier  of  the  two,  as  he  was  far  more 
capable  of  profound  feeling  than  the  wild  girl  who  was 
now  his  wife.  He  was  glad,  too,  to  see  that  she  was  so 
thoroughly  delighted,  for  he  knew  well  enough  that  even 
after  he  had  gained  the  suit  he  would  need  the  support 
of  an  ambitious  woman  to  strengthen  his  position.  He 
did  not  believe  that  the  Saracinesca  would  submit  tamely 
to  such  a  tremendous  shock  of  fortune,  and  he  foresaw 
that  their  resentment  would  probably  be  shared  by  a  great 
number  of  their  friends. 

Flavia  looked  prettier  than  ever  as  she  put  the  bit  of 
rolled  paper  between  her  red  lips  and  puffed  away  with 
an  energy  altogether  unnecessary.  He  would  not  have 
believed  that,  being  already  so  brilliant  and  good  to  see, 
a  piece  of  unexpected  good  news  could  have  lent  her  ex 
pression  so  much  more  brightness.  She  was  positively 
radiant,  as  she  looked  from  his  eyes  at  her  little  ciga 
rette,  and  then,  looking  back  to  him  again,  laughed  and 
snapped  her  small  gloved  fingers. 

"Do  you  know,"  she  said  presently,  with  a  glance  that 
completed  the  conquest  of  San  Giacinto's  heart,  "I 
thought  I  should  be  dreadfully  shy  with  you  —  at  first  — 


SANT'  ILARIO.  263 

and  I  am  not  in  the  least !  I  confess,  at  the  very  moment 
when  you  were  putting  the  ring  on  my  linger  I  was  won 
dering  what  we  should  talk  about  during  the  drive." 

"  You  did  not  think  we  should  have  such  an  agreeable 
subject  of  conversation,  did  you?" 

"  No  —  and  it  is  such  a  pretty  ring !  I  always  wanted 
a  band  of  diamonds  —  plain  gold  is  so  common.  Did  you 
think  of  it  yourself  or  did  some  one  else  suggest  the 
idea?  " 

"Castellani  said  it  was  old-fashioned,"  answered  San 
Giacinto,  "but  I  preferred  it." 

"Would  you  have  liked  one,  too?" 

"  No.     It  would  be  ridiculous  for  a  man. " 

"  You  have  very  good  taste, "  remarked  Flavia,  eyeing 
him  critically.  "Where  did  you  get  it?  You  used  to 
keep  a  hotel  in  Aquila,  did  you  not?" 

San  Giacinto  had  long  been  prepared  for  the  question 
and  did  not  wince  nor  show  the  slightest  embarrassment. 
He  smiled  calmly  as  he  answered  her. 

"You  would  hardly  have  called  it  a  hotel,  it  was  a 
country  inn.  I  daresay  I  shall  manage  Saracinesca  all 
the  better  for  having  kept  a  hostelry." 

"  Of  course.  Oh,  I  have  Such  a  delightful  idea !  Let  us 
go  to  Aquila  and  keep  the  hotel  together.  It  would  be 
such  fun !  You  could  say  you  had  married  a  little  shop 
keeper's  daughter  in  Rome,  you  know.  Just  for  a  month, 
Nino  —  do  let  us  do  it !  It  would  be  such  a  change  after 
society,  and  then  we  would  go  back  for  the  Carnival. 
Oh,  do ! " 

"  But  you  forget  the  lawsuit " 

"  That  is  true.  Besides,  it  will  be  just  as  much  of  a 
change  to  be  Princess  Saracinesca.  But  we  can  do  it 
another  time.  I  would  like  so  much  to  go  about  in  an 
apron  with  a  red  cotton  handkerchief  on  my  head  and  see 
all  the  queer  people !  When  are  the  lawyers  coming?  " 

"During  the  week,  I  suppose." 

"  There  will  be  a  fight, "  said  Flavia,  her  face  growing 
more  grave.  "  What  will  Sant'  Ilario  and  his  father  say 
and  do?  I  cannot  believe  that  it  will  all  go  so  smoothly 
as  you  think.  They  do  not  look  like  people  who  would 
give  up  easily  what  they  have  had  so  long.  I  suppose 
they  will  be  quite  ruined." 


264  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"I  do  not  know.  Corona  is  rich  in  her  own  right, 
and  Sant'  Ilario  has  his  mother's  fortune.  Of  course, 
they  will  be  poor  compared  with  their  present  wealth. 
T  am  sorry  for  them " 

"Sorry?"  Flavia  looked  at  her  husband  in  some 
astonishment.  "It  is  their  own  fault.  Why  should 
you  be  sorry?" 

"It  is  not  exactly  their  fault.  I  could  hardly  have 
expected  them  to  come  to  me  and  inform  me  that  a  mis 
take  had  been  made  in  the  last  century,  and  that  all  they 
possessed  was  mine." 

"All  they  possessed!"  echoed  Flavia,  thoughtfully. 
"  What  a  wonderful  idea  it  is !  " 

"Very  wonderful,"  assented  San  Giacinto,  who  was 
thinking  once  more  of  his  former  poverty. 

The  carriage  rolled  on  and  both  were  silent  for  some 
time,  absorbed  in  dreaming  of  the  greatness  which  was 
before  them  in  the  near  future,  San  Giacinto  enumerating 
in  his  mind  the  titles  and  estates  which  were  soon  to  be 
his,  while  Flavia  imagined  herself  in  Corona's  place  in 
Rome,  grown  suddenly  to  be  a  central  figure  in  society, 
leading  and  organising  the  brilliant  amusements  of  her 
world,  and  above  all,  rejoicing  in  that  lavish  use  of 
abundant  money  which  had  always  seemed  to  her  the 
most  desirable  of  all  enjoyments. 


CHAPTER   XVIII. 

Faustina  Montevarchi  was  delighted  when  her  sister 
was  at  last  married  and  out  of  the  house.  The  two  had 
always  been  very  good  friends,  but  Faustina  felt  that 
she  had  an  enemy  in  San  Giacinto  and  was  relieved  when 
he  was  gone.  She  had  no  especial  reason  for  her  suspi 
cions,  since  he  treated  her  with  the  same  quiet  and  ami 
cable  politeness  which  he  showed  to  the  rest  of  the 
household;  but  her  perceptions  were  extraordinarily  true 
and  keen,  and  she  had  noticed  that  he  watched  her 
whenever  Gouache  was  in  the  room,  in  a  way  that  made 


SANT'  ILARIO.  265 

her  very  uncomfortable.  Moreover,  he  had  succeeded  of 
late  in  making  Flavia  accompany  her  to  early  mass  on 
Sunday  mornings  on  pretence  of  his  wishing  to  see 
Flavia  without  the  inevitable  supervision  of  the  old 
princess.  The  plan  was  ingenious;  for  Faustina,  instead 
of  meeting  Gouache,  was  thus  obliged  to  play  chaperon 
while  her  sister  and  San  Giacinto  talked  to  their  hearts' 
content.  He  was  a  discreet  man,  however,  and  Flavia 
was  ignorant  of  the  fact  that  Faustina  and  Anastase  had 
sometimes  met  in  the  same  way,  and  would  have  met 
frequently  had  they  not  been  prevented.  The  young 
girl  was  clever  enough  to  see  why  San  Giacinto  acted  as 
he  did;  she  understood  that  he  was  an  ambitious  man, 
and  that,  as  he  was  about  to  ally  himself  with  her  family, 
he  would  naturally  disapprove  of  her  attachment  to 
Gouache.  Now  that  he  was  gone,  she  wondered  whether 
he  had  devised  any  steps  which  would  take  effect  after 
his  departure. 

Faustina  was  quite  as  much  in  love  as  Gouache  him 
self,  and  spent  much  time  in  calculating  the  chances  of 
a  favourable  issue  from  the  situation  in  which  she  found 
herself.  Life  without  Anastase  was  impossible,  but  the 
probabilities  of  her  becoming  his  wife  in  the  ordinary 
course  of  events  were  very  few,  as  far  as  she  was  able  to 
judge,  and  she  had  moments  of  extreme  depression, 
during  which  she  despaired  of  everything.  The  love  of  a 
very  young  girl  may  in  itself  be  both  strong  and  enduring, 
but  it  generally  has  the  effect  of  making  her  prone  to 
extremes  of  hope  and  fear,  uncertain  of  herself,  vacillat 
ing  in  her  ideas,  and  unsteady  in  the  pursuit  of  the 
smaller  ends  of  life.  Throw  two  equal  weights  into  the 
scales  of  a  perfectly  adjusted  balance,  the  arm  will  swing 
and  move  erratically  many  times  before  it  returns  to  its 
normal  position,  although  there  is  a  potential  equilibrium 
in  the  machine  which  will  shortly  assert  itself  in  abso 
lute  tranquillity.  ,.1 

Love  in  a  very  young  person  is  rarely  interesting, 
unless  it  is  attended  by  heroic  or  tragic  circumstances. 
Human  life  is  very  like  the  game  of  chess,  of  which  the 
openings  are  so  limited  in  number  that  a  practised  player 
knows  them  all  by  heart,  whereas  the  subsequent  moves 
are  susceptible  of  infinite  variation.  Almost  all  young 


266  SANT'  ILARIO. 

people  pass  through  the  early  stages  of  existence  by  some 
known  gambit,  which  has  always  a  definite  influence  upon 
their  later  lives,  but  never  determines  the  latter  entirely. 
The  game  is  played  between  humanity  on  the  one  side 
and  the  unforeseen  on  the  other;  but  that  which  can 
really  not  be  foretold  in  some  measure  rarely  presents 
itself  until  the  first  effects  of  love  have  been  felt,  a 
period  which,  to  continue  the  simile,  may  be  compared 
in  chess  to  the  operation  of  castling.  Then  comes  the 
first  crisis,  and  the  merest  tyro  knows  how  much  may 
depend  upon  whether  he  castles  on  the  king's  side  or  on 
the  queen's. 

Now  the  nature  of  Faustina's  first  love  was  such  as  to 
make  it  probable  that  it  would  end  in  some  uncommon 
way.  There  was  something  fatal  in  the  suddenness  with 
which  her  affection  had  grown  and  had  upset  the  balance 
of  her  judgment.  It  is  safe  to  say  that  not  one  young 
girl  in  a  million  would  have  behaved  as  she  had  done  on 
the  night  of  the  insurrection  in  Rome;  not  one  in  a 
hundred  thousand  would,  in  her  position,  have  fallen  in 
love  with  Gouache. 

The  position  of  the  professional  artist  and.  of  the 
professional  man  of  letters  in  modern  European  society  is 
ill  defined.  As  a  man  who  has  been  brought  up  in  a 
palace  would  undoubtedly  betray  his  breeding  sooner  or 
later  if  transported  to  live  amongst  a  gang  of  thieves, 
so  a  man  who  has  grown  to  years  of  discretion  in  the 
atmosphere  of  studios  or  in  the  queer  company  from 
which  most  literary  men  have  sprung,  will  inevitably,  at 
one  time  or  another,  offend  the  susceptibilities  of  that 
portion  of  humanity  which  calls  itself  society.  It  is 
impossible  that  it  should  be  otherwise.  Among  a  set  of 
people  whose  profession  it  is  to  do  always,  and  in  all 
things,  precisely  what  their  neighbours  do,  the  man  who 
makes  his  living  by  doing  what  other  people  cannot  do, 
must  always  be  a  marked  figure.  Look  at  modern  soci 
ety.  It  cannot  toil  nor  spin;  it  can  hardly  put  together 
ten  words  in  a  grammatical  sequence.  But  it  can  clothe 
itself.  The  man  of  letters  can  both  toil  and  write  good 
English,  but  his  taste  in  tailoring  frequently  leaves  much 
to  be  desired.  If  he  would  put  himself  in  the  hands  of 
Poole,  and  hold  his  tongue,  he  might  almost  pass  for  a 


SANT'  ILARIO.  267 

member  of  society.  But  he  must  needs  talk,  and  his 
speech  bewrayeth  him  for  a  Galilean.  There  are  wits  in 
society,  both  many  and  keen,  who  can  say  something 
original,  cutting  and  neatly  turned,  upon  almost  any 
subject,  with  an  easy  superiority  which  makes  the  hair 
of  the  learned  man  stand  erect  upon  his  head.  The  chief 
characteristic  of  him  who  lives  by  his  brains  is,  that  he 
is  not  only  able  to  talk  consecutively  upon  some  subject, ' 
but  that  he  actually  does  so,  which,  in  society,  is  ac 
counted  a  monstrous  crime  against  manners.  Let  him 
write  what  he  wants  to  say,  and  print  it;  society  will 
either  not  understand  him  at  all,  or  will  read  his  works 
with  a  dictionary  in  the  secrecy  of  its  own  chamber. 
But  if  he  will  hold  his  tongue  in  public,  society  will  give 
him  a  cup  of  tea  and  treat  him  almost  like  a  human 
being  for  the  sake  of  being  said  to  patronise  letters.  Any 
one  who  likes  society's  tea  may  drink  his  fill  of  it  in 
consideration  of  wearing  a  good  coat  and  keeping  his 
wits  to  himself,  but  he  will  not  succeed  in  marrying  any 
of  society's  sisters,  cousins  or  aunts  without  a  severe 
struggle. 

Anastase  Gouache  did  not  quite  understand  this.  He 
sometimes  found  himself  amidst  a  group  of  people  who 
were  freely  discussing  some  person  unknown  to  him.  On 
such  occasions  he  held  his  peace,  innocently  supposing 
that  his  ignorance  was  without  any  importance  what 
soever,  among  a  set  of  men  and  women  with  whom  not  to 
know  every  detail  concerning  every  one  else  is  to  be 
little  better  than  an  outcast. 

"  ]STow  do  tell  me  all  about  the  Snooks  and  Montmor- 
ency  divorce,"  says  Lady  Smyth-Tompkins  with  a  sweetly 
engaging  smile,  as  she  holds  out  her  hand. 

"  I  did  not  know  there  was  such  a  case  —  I  don't  know 
the  people,"  you  answer. 

''Oh!  I  thought,  of  course,  you  knew  all  about  it," 
Lady  Smyth-Tompkins  replies,  and  her  features  turn  to 
stone  as  she  realises  that  you  do  not  know  everybody, 
and  leaves  you  to  your  own  reflections. 

0  Thackeray,  snobissme  maxime !  How  well  you  knew 
them ! 

There  are  no  snobs  among  the  Latin  races,  but  there  is 
a  worse  animal,  the  sycophant,  descended  directly  from 


268  SANT'  ILARIO. 

the  dinner-tables  of  ancient  Rome.  In  old-fashioned 
houses  there  are  often  several  of  them,  headed  invariably 
by  the  "giornale  ambulante,"  the  walking  newspaper, 
whose  business  it  is  to  pick  up  items  of  news  during  the 
day  in  order  to  detail  them,  to  the  family  in  the  evening. 
There  is  a  certain  old  princess  who  sits  every  evening 
with  her  needlework  at  the  head  of  a  long  table  in  the 
dismal  drawing-room  of  a  gigantic  palace.  On  each  side 
of  the  board  are  seated  the  old  parasites,  the  family 
doctor,  the  family  chaplain,  the  family  lawyer,  the 
family  librarian,  the  peripatetic  news-sheet  and  the  rest. 

"  I  have  been  out  to-day, "  says  her  excellency. 

"Oh!  Ah!  Dear  me!  In  this  weather!  Hear  what 
the  princess  says !  The  princess  has  been  out !  "  The 
chorus  comes  up  the  table,  all  the  answers  reaching  her 
ears  at  once. 

"And  I  saw,  as  I  drove  by,  the  new  monument! 
What  a  ridiculous  thing  it  is." 

"Ho!  ho!  ho!  Hah!  hah!  hah!  Dear  me!  What  a 
monument!  What  fine  taste  the  princess  has!  Hear 
what  the  princess  thinks  of  the  monument!  " 

"  If  you  will  believe  it,  the  bronze  horse  has  a  crooked 
leg."  * 

"He!  he!  he!  Hi!  hi!  hi!  Dear  me!  A  crooked 
leg !  How  the  princess  understands  horses !  The  prin 
cess  saw  that  he  had  a  crooked  leg !  " 

And  so  on,  for  a  couple  of  hours,  in  the  cold,  dimly  - 
lighted  room  until  her  excellency  has  had  enough  of  it 
and  rises  to  go  to  bed,  when  the  parasites  all  scuttle 
away  and  quarrel  with  each  other  in  the  street  as  they 
walk  home.  Night  after  night,  to  decades  of  years,  the 
old  lady  recounts  the  little  journal  of  her  day  to  the 
admiring  listeners,  whose  chorus  of  approval  is  performed 
daily  with  the  same  unvarying  regularity.  The  times 
are  changing  now ;  the  prince  is  not  so  easily  amused, 
and  the  sycophant  has  accordingly  acquired  the  art  of 
amusing,  but  there  still  survive  some  wonderful  monu 
ments  of  the  old  school. 

Anastase  Gouache  was  a  man  of  great  talent  and  of 
rising  fame,  but  like  other  men  of  his  stamp  he  preferred 
to  believe  that  he  was  received  on  a  friendly  footing  for 
his  own  sake  rather  than  on  account  of  his  reputation, 


SANT'  ILARIO.  269 

In  his  own  eyes,  he  was,  as  a  man,  as  good  as  those  with 
whom  he  associated,  and  had  as  much  right  to  make  love 
to  Faustina  Montevarchi  as  the  young  Frangipani,  for 
whom  her  father  destined  her.  Faustina,  on  her  part, 
was  too  young  to  appreciate  the  real  strength  of  the  preju 
dices  by  which  she  was  surrounded.  She  could  not 
understand  that,  although  the  man  she  loved  was  a 
gentleman,  young,  good-looking,  successful,  and  not 
without  prospects  of  acquiring  a  fortune,  he  was  yet 
wholly  ineligible  as  a  husband.  Had  she  seen  this  ever 
so  clearly  it  might  have  made  but  little  difference  in  her 
feelings;  but  she  did  not  see  it,  and  the  disparaging 
remarks  about  Anastase,  which  she  occasionally  heard  in 
her  own  family,  seemed  to  her  utterly  unjust  as  well  as 
quite  unfounded.  The  result  was  that  the  two  young 
people  were  preparing  for  themselves  one  of  those  terri 
ble  disappointments  of  which  the  consequences  are  some 
times  felt  during  a  score  of  years.  Both,  however,  were 
too  much  in  love  to  bear  suspense  very  long  without  doing 
something  to  precipitate  the  course  of  events,  and  when 
ever  they  had  the  chance  they  talked  the  matter  over  and 
built  wonderful  castles  in  the  air. 

About  a  fortnight  after  the  marriage  of  San  Giacinto 
they  were  seated  together  in  a  room  full  of  people,  late 
in  the  afternoon.  They  had  been  talking  for  some  time 
upon  indifferent  subjects.  When  two  persons  meet  who 
are  very  much  in  love  with  each  other,  and  waste  their 
time  in  discussing  topics  of  little  importance,  it  may  be 
safely  predicted  that  something  unusual  is  about  to  occur. 

"I  cannot  endure  this  suspense  any  longer,"  said 
Gouache  at  last. 

"Nor  I,"  answered  Faustina. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  wait  any  more.  Either  your  father 
will  consent  or  he  will  not.  I  will  ask  him  and  know 
the  worst." 

"And  if  it  is  the  worst  —  what  then?"  The  young 
girl  turned  her  eyes  towards  Anastase  with  a  frightened 
look. 

"Then  we  must  manage  without  his  consent." 

"How  is  that  possible?" 

" It  must  be  possible,"  replied  Gouache.  "  If  you  love 
me  it  shall  be  possible.  It  is  only  a  question  of  a  little 


270  SANT'  ILARIO. 

courage  and  goodwill.  But,  after  all,  your  father  may 
consent.  Why  should  he  not  ?  " 

"  Because "  she  hesitated  a  little. 

" Because  I  am  not  a  Koman  prince,  you  mean." 
Anastase  glanced  quickly  at  her. 

"No.     He  wants  me  to  marry  Frangipani." 

"Why  did  you  never  tell  me  that?" 

"I  did  not  know  it  when  we  last  met.  My  mother 
told  me  of  it  last  night." 

"Is  the  match  settled?"  asked  Gouache.  He  was 
very  pale. 

"I  think  it  has  been  spoken  of,"  answered  Faustina 
in  a  low  voice.  She  shivered  a  little  and  pressed  her 
hands  together.  There  was  a  short  silence,  during  which 
Anastase  did  not  take  his  eyes  from  her,  while  she  looked 
down,  avoiding  his  look. 

"  Then  there  is  no  time  to  be  lost, "  said  Gouache  at 
last.  "I  will  go  to  your  father  to-morrow  morning." 

"  Oh  —  don't,  don't ! "  cried  Faustina,  suddenly,  with 
an  expression  of  intense  anxiety. 

"Why  not?  "    The  artist  seemed  very  much  surprised. 

"  You  do  not  know  him !  You  do  not  know  what  he 
will  say  to  you!  You  will  be  angry  and  lose  your 
temper  —  he  will  be  cruel  and  will  insult  you,  and  you 
will  resent  it  —  then  I  shall  never  see  you  again.  You 
do  not  know " 

"This  is  something  new,"  said  Gouache.  "How  can 
you  be  sure  that  he  will  receive  me  so  badly?  Have 
your  people  talked  about  me?  After  all,  I  am  an  honest 
man,  and  though  I  live  by  my  profession  I  am  not  poor. 
It  is  true,  I  am  not  such  a  match  for  you  as  Frangipani. 
Tell  me,  do  they  abuse  me  at  your  house?" 

"No  —  what  can  they  say,  except  that  you  are  an 
artist?  That  is  not  abuse,  nor  calumny." 

"  It  depends  upon  how  it  is  said.  I  suppose  it  is  San 
Giacinto  who  says  it."  Gouache's  face  darkened. 

"San  Giacinto  has  guessed  the  truth,"  answered  Faus 
tina,  shaking  her  head.  "  He  knows  that  we  love  each 
other,  and  just  now  he  is  very  powerful  with  my  father. 
It  will  be  worse  if  he  wins  the  suit  and  is  Prince  Sara- 
cinesca." 

"Then   that   is   another  reason  for  acting  at  once. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  271 

Faustina  —  you  followed  me  once  —  will  you  not  go  with 
me,  away,  out  of  this  cursed  city?  I  will  ask  for  you 
first.  I  will  behave  honourably.  But  if  he  will  not 
consent,  what  is  there  left  for  us  to  do?  Can  we  live 
apart?  Can  you  marry  Frangipani?  Have  not  many 
people  done  before  what  we  think  of  doing?  Is  it  wrong? 
Heaven  knows,  I  make  no  pretence  to  sanctity.  But  I 
would  not  have  you  do  anything  —  what  shall  I  say? 
Anything  against  your  conscience."  There  was  a  shade 
of  bitterness  in  the  laugh  that  accompanied  the  last 
words. 

"You  do  not  know  what  things  he  will  say,"  repeated 
Faustina,  in  despairing  tones. 

"This  is  absurd,"  said  Gouache.  "I  can  bear  any 
thing  he  can  say  well  enough.  He  is  an  old  man  and  I 
am  a  young  one,  and  have  no  intention  of  taking  offence. 
He  may  say  what  he  pleases,  call  me  a  villain,  a  brigand 
—  that  is  your  favourite  Italian  expression  —  a  thief,  a 
liar,  anything  he  pleases.  I  will  not  be  angry.  There 
shall  be  no  violence.  But  I  cannot  endure  this  state  of 
things  any  longer.  I  must  try  my  luck." 

"  Wait  a  little  longer, "  answered  Faustina,  in  an  im 
ploring  tone.  "Wait  until  the  suit  is  decided." 

"  In  order  to  let  San  Giacinto  get  even  more  influence 
than  he  has  now?  It  would  be  a  mistake  —  you  almost 
said  so  yourself  a  moment  ago.  Besides,  the  suit  may 
for  years." 

"It  will  not  last  a  fortnight." 

"Poor  Sant'  Ilario!"  exclaimed  Gouache.  "Does 
everybody  know  about  it?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.  But  nobody  speaks  of  it.  We  all  feel 
dreadfully  about  it,  except  my  father  and  San  Giacinto 
and  Flavia." 

"  If  he  is  in  a  good  humour  this  is  the  very  time  to  go 
to  him." 

"  Please,  please  do  not  insist ! "  Faustina  was  evi 
dently  very  much  in  earnest.  With  the  instinct  of  a  very 
young  woman,  she  clung  to  the  half  happiness  of  the 
present  which  was  so  much  greater  than  anything  she 
had  known  before  in  her  life.  But  Gouache  would  not 
be  satisfied. 

"  I  must  know  the  worst,"  he  said  again,  as  they  parted. 


272  SANT'  ILABIO. 

"But  this  is  so  much  better  than  the  worst,"  answered 
Faustina,  sadly. 

"Who  risks  nothing,  wins  nothing,"  retorted  the  young 
man  with  a  bright  smile. 

In  spite  of  his  hopefulness,  however,  he  had  received 
a  severe  shock  on  hearing  the  news  of  the  intended  match 
with  young  Frangipani.  He  had  certainly  never  ex 
pected  to  find  himself  the  rival  of  such  a  suitor,  and  his 
sense  of  possibility,  if  man  may  be  said  to  possess  such 
a  faculty,  was  staggered  by  the  idea.  He  suddenly 
awakened  to  a  true  understanding  of  his  position  in 
Roman  society,  and  when  he  contemplated  his  discovery 
in  all  its  bearings,  his  nerve  almost  forsook  him.  When 
he  remembered  his  childhood,  his  youth,  and  the  cir 
cumstances  in  which  he  had  lived  up  to  a  recent  time,  he 
found  it  hard  to  realise  that  he  was  trying  to  marry  such 
a  girl,  in  spite  of  her  family  and  in  opposition  to  such  a 
man  as  was  now  brought  forward  as  a  match  for  her.  It 
was  not  in  his  nature,  however,  to  be  discouraged  in  the 
face  of  difficulties.  He  was  like  a  brave  man  who  has 
received  a  stunning  blow,  but  who  continues  to  fight 
until  he  has  gradually  regained  his  position.  Gouache 
could  no  more  have  relinquished  Faustina  than  he  could 
have  abandoned  a  half -finished  picture  in  which  he  be 
lieved,  any  more  than  he  had  given  up  the  attempt  to 
break  away  the  stones  at  the  Vigna  Santucci  after  he  had 
received  the  bullet  in  his  shoulder.  He  had  acquired  his 
position  in  life  by  indomitable  perseverance  and  hope 
fulness,  and  those  qualities  would  not  now  fail  him,  in  one 
of  the  most  critical  situations  through  which  he  had  ever 
passed.  In  spite  of  Faustina's  warning  and,  to  some 
extent,  in  spite  of  his  own  better  judgment,  he  deter 
mined  to  face  the  old  prince  at  once  and  to  ask  him 
boldly  for  his  daughter. 

He  had  spoken  confidently  to  Faustina  of  being  mar 
ried  against  the  will  of  her  father,  but  when  he  thought 
over  this  alternative  he  recollected  a  fact  he  had  almost 
completely  forgotten  in  considering  his  matrimonial  pro 
jects.  He  was  a  soldier  and  had  enlisted  in  the  Zouaves 
for  a  term  of  years.  It  was  true  that  by  using  the  in 
fluence  he  possessed  he  might  hope  to  be  released  from 
his  engagement,  but  such  a  course  was  most  repugnant 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  273 

to  him.  Before  Mentana  it  would  have  been  wholly  im 
possible,  for  it  would  have  seemed  cowardly.  Now  that 
he  had  distinguished  himself  and  had  been  wounded  in 
the  cause,  the  thing  might  be  done  without  dishonour, 
but  it  would  involve  a  species  of  self-abasement  to  which 
he  was  not  prepared  to  submit.  On  the  other  hand,  to 
wait  until  his  term  of  service  should  have  expired  was 
to  risk  losing  Faustina  altogether.  He  knew  that  she 
loved  him,  but  he  was  experienced  enough  to  know  that 
a  young  girl  is  not  always  able  to  bear  the  pressure  exer 
cised  upon  her  when  marriage  is  concerned.  In  Rome, 
and  especially  at  that  time,  it  was  in  the  power  of 
parents  to  use  the  most  despotic  means  for  subduing  the 
will  of  their  children.  There  was  even  a  law  by  which 
a  disobedient  son  or  daughter  could  be  imprisoned  for  a 
considerable  length  of  time,  provided  that  the  father 
could  prove  that  his  child  had  rebelled  against  his  just 
will.  Though  Gouache  was  not  aware  of  this,  the  fact 
that  a  similar  institution  existed  in  his  own  country  made 
him  suspect  that  it  was  to  be  found  in  Eome  also.  Sup 
posing  that  Montevarchi  refused  to  accept  him  for  a  son- 
in-law,  and  that  Faustina,  on  the  other  hand,  refused  to 
marry  young  Frangipani,  it  was  only  too  probable  that 
she  might  be  locked  up  —  in  a  luxuriously  furnished  cell 
of  course  —  to  reflect  upon  the  error  of  her  ways.  It  was 
by  no  means  certain  that  in  the  face  of  such  humiliation 
and  suffering  Faustina  would  continue  her  resistance; 
indeed,  she  could  hardly  be  blamed  if  she  yielded  in  the 
end.  Gouache  believed  in  the  sincerity  of  her  love  be 
cause  the  case  was  his  own;  had  he  heard  of  it  in  the  life 
of  another  man  he  would  have  laughed  at  the  idea  that 
a  girl  of  eighteen  could  be  capable  of  a  serious  passion. 

It  is  not  necessary,  however,  to  enter  into  an  analysis 
of  the  motives  and  feelings  of  either  Faustina  or  Anas- 
tase.  Their  connection  with  the  history  of  the  Sara- 
cinesca  arose  from  what  they  did,  and  not  from  the 
thoughts  which  prompted  their  actions.  It  is  sufficient 
to  say  that  Gouache  conceived  the  mad  idea  of  asking 
Monte varchi's  consent  to  his  marriage  and  to  explain  the 
immediate  consequences  of  the  step  he  took. 

Matters  were  rapidly  approaching  a  climax.  San  Gia- 
cinto  had  seen  the  lawyers  at  Frascati,  and  he  had  brought 


274  SANT'  TLARIO. 

his  wife  back  to  Rome  very  soon  in  order  to  be  on  the 
spot  while  the  case  was  being  prepared.  The  men  of  the 
law  declared  that  the  matter  was  a  very  simple  one  and 
that  no  court  could  withhold  its  decision  a  single  day 
after  seeing  the  documents  which  constituted  the  claim. 
The  only  point  about  which  any  argument  could  arise 
related  to  the  identity  of  San  Giacinto  himself,  and  no 
difficulty  was  found  in  establishing  substantial  proof  that 
he  was  Giovanni  Saracinesca  and  not  an  impostor.  His 
father  and  grandfather  had  jealously  kept  all  the  records 
of  themselves  which  were  necessary,  from  the  marriage 
certificate  of  the  original  Don  Leone,  who  had  signed  the 
deed,  to  the  register  of  San  Giacinto' s  own  birth.  Copies 
were  obtained,  properly  drawn  up  and  certified,  of  the 
parish  books  and  of  the  few  government  documents  which 
were  officially  preserved  in  the  kingdom  of  Naples  before 
1860,  and  the  lawyers  declared  themselves  ready  to  open 
the  case.  Up  to  this  time  the  strictest  secrecy  was  pre 
served,  at  the  request  of  San  Giacinto  himself.  He  said 
that  in  such  an  important  matter  he  wished  nothing  to 
transpire  until  he  was  ready  to  act;  more  especially  as 
the  Saracinesca  themselves  could  not  be  ignorant  of  the 
true  state  of  the  case  and  had  no  right  to  receive  notice 
of  the  action  beforehand.  As  Corona  had  foreseen,  San 
Giacinto  intended  to  obtain  the  decision  by  means  of  a 
perfectly  legal  trial,  and  was  honestly  ready  to  court 
enquiry  into  the  rights  he  was  about  to  assert.  When 
the  moment  came  and  all  was  ready,  he  went  to  the  Pa 
lazzo  Saracinesca  and  asked  for  the  prince,  who  received 
him  in  the  same  room  in  which  the  two  had  met  when 
the  ex-innkeeper  had  made  his  appearance  in  Rome 
nearly  three  months  earlier.  As  San  Giacinto  entered 
he  felt  that  he  had  not  wasted  his  time  during  that  short 
interval. 

"  I  have  come  to  talk  with  you  upon  a  business  which 
must  be  unpleasant  to  you, "  he  began.  "  Unfortunately 
it  cannot  be  avoided.  I  beg  you  to  believe  that  it  is  my 
wish  to  act  loyally  and  fairly." 

"I  hope  so,"  said  Saracinesca,  bending  his  bushy  gray 
eyebrows  and  fixing  his  keen  old  eyes  upon  his  visitor. 

"  You  need  not  doubt  it, "  replied  San  Giacinto  rather 
proudly.  "  You  are  doubtless  acquainted  with  the  nature 


SANT'  ILARIO.  275 

of  the  deed  by  which  our  great-grandfathers  agreed  to 
transfer  the  titles  and  property  to  the  younger  of  the 
two.  When  we  first  spoke  of  the  matter  I  was  not  aware 
of  the  existence  of  a  saving  clause.  I  cannot  suppose  you 
ignorant  of  it.  That  clause  provided  that  if  Leone  Sara- 
cinesca  married  and  had  a  lawful  heir,  the  deed  should 
be  null  and  void.  He  did  marry,  as  you  know.  I  am  his 
direct  descendant,  and  have  children  of  my  own  by  my 
first  marriage.  I  cannot  therefore  allow  the  clause  in 
question  to  remain  in  abeyance  any  longer.  With  all  due 
respect  to  you,  I  am  obliged  to  tell  you  quite  frankly 
that,  in  law,  I  am  Prince  Saracinesca." 

Having  thus  stated  his  position  as  plainly  as  possible, 
San  Giacinto  folded  his  great  hands  upon  his  knee  and 
leaned  against  the  back  of  his  chair.  Saracinesca  looked 
as  though  he  were  about  to  make  some  hasty  answer,  but 
he  controlled  his  intention  and  rose  to  his  feet.  After 
walking  twice  up  and  down  the  room,  he  came  and  stood 
in  front  of  his  cousin. 

"  Let  us  be  plain  in  what  we  say,"  he  began.  "  I  give 
you  my  word  that,  until  Montevarchi  sent  back  those 
papers  the  other  day,  I  did  not  know  what  they  con 
tained.  I  had  not  read  them  for  thirty  years,  and  at 
that  time  the  clause  escaped  me.  I  do  not  remember  to 
have  noticed  it.  This  may  have  been  due  to  the  fact 
that  I  had  never  heard  that  Leone  had  any  living  descend 
ants,  and  should  therefore  have  attached  no  importance 
to  the  words  if  I  had  seen  them." 

"I  believe  you,"  said  San  Giacinto,  calmly.  The  old 
man's  eyes  flashed. 

"I  always  take  it  for  granted  that  I  am  believed,"  he 
answered.  "  Will  you  give  me  your  word  that  you  are 
what  you  assert  yourself  to  be,  Giovanni  Saracinesca,  the 
great-grandson  and  lawful  heir  of  Leone?" 

"Certainly.  I  pledge  my  honour  that  I  am;  and  I, 
too,  expect  to  be  believed  by  you." 

There  was  something  in  the  tone  of  the  answer  that 
struck  a  sympathetic  chord  in  Saracinesca's  nature.  San 
Giacinto  had  risen  to  his  feet,  and  there  was  something 
in  the  huge,  lean  strength  of  him,  in  the  bold  look  of  his 
eyes,  in  the  ring  of  his  deep  voice,  that  inspired  respect. 
Rough  he  was,  and  not  over  refined  or  carefully  trained 


276  SANT'  ILARIO. 

in  the  ways  of  the  world,  cruel  perhaps,  and  overbearing 
too;  but  he  was  every  inch  a  Saracinesca,  and  the  old 
man  felt  it. 

"  I  believe  you,"  answered  the  prince.  "  You  may  take 
possession  when  you  please.  I  am  Don  Leone,  and  you 
are  the  head  of  the  house." 

He  made  a  gesture  full  of  dignity,  as  though  resigning 
then  and  there  his  name  and  the  house  in  which  he  lived, 
to  him  who  was  lawfully  entitled  to  both.  The  action 
was  magnificent  and  worthy  of  the  man.  There  was  a 
superb  disregard  of  consequences  in  his  readiness  to  give 
up  everything  rather  than  keep  for  a  moment  what  was 
not  his,  which  affected  San  Giacinto  strangely.  In  jus 
tice  to  the  latter  it  must  be  remembered  that  he  had  not 
the  faintest  idea  that  he  was  the  instrument  of  a  gigan 
tic  fraud  from  which  he  was  to  derive  the  chief  advan 
tage.  He  instinctively  bowed  in  acknowledgment  of 
his  cousin's  generous  conduct. 

"I  shall  not  take  advantage  of  your  magnanimity,"  he 
said,  "until  the  law  has  sanctioned  my  doing  so." 

"As  you  please,"  answered  the  other.  "I  have  noth 
ing  to  conceal  from  the  law,  but  I  am  prejudiced  against 
lawyers.  Do  as  you  think  best.  A  family  council  can 
settle  the  matter  as  well  as  the  courts." 

"  Your  confidence  in  me  is  generous  and  noble.  I  pre 
fer,  however,  that  the  tribunal  should  examine  the  mat 
ter." 

"  As  you  please, "  repeated  Saracinesca.  There  was  no 
reason  for  prolonging  an  interview  which  could  not  be 
agreeable  to  either  party.  The  old  man  remained  stand 
ing.  "No  opposition  will  be  made  to  the  suit,"  he  said. 
"  You  will  simply  produce  your  papers  in  proper  form, 
and  I  will  declare  myself  satisfied."  He  held  out  his 
hand. 

"  I  trust  you  will  bear  me  no  ill-will, "  said  San  Gia 
cinto  rather  awkwardly. 

"For  taking  what  is  yours  and  not  mine?  Not  in  the 
least.  Good-evening." 

San  Giacinto  left  the  room.  When  he  was  gone,  Sara 
cinesca  stood  still  for  a  moment,  and  then  sank  into  a 
chair.  His  strong  nature  had  sustained  him  through  the 
meeting  and  would  sustain  him  to  the  end,  but  he  was 


SANT'  ILARIO.  277 

terribly  shaken,  and  felt  a  strange  sensation  of  numbness 
in  the  back  of  his  head,  which  was  quite  new  to  him. 
For  some  minutes  he  sat  still  as  though  dazed  and  only 
half  conscious.  Then  he  rose  again,  shook  himself  as 
though  to  get  rid  of  a  bad  dream  and  rang  the  bell.  He 
sent  for  Giovanni,  who  appeared  immediately. 

"San  Giacinto  has  been  here,"  he  said  quickly.  "He 
is  the  man.  You  had  better  tell  your  wife,  as  she  will 
want  to  collect  her  things  before  we  leave  the  house." 

Giovanni  was  staggered  by  his  father's  impetuosity. 
He  had  realised  that  the  danger  existed,  but  it  had 
always  seemed  indefinitely  far  removed. 

"  I  suppose  there  will  be  some  legal  proceedings  before 
everything  is  settled,"  he  said  with  more  calmness  than 
he  felt. 

"What  is  that  to  us?    We  must  go,  sooner  or  later." 

"  And  if  the  courts  do  not  decide  in  his  favour,  what 
then?  " 

"There  is  no  doubt  about  it,"  answered  the  prince, 
pacing  the  room  as  his  excitement  returned.  "  You  and 
I  are  nobody.  We  had  better  go  and  live  in  an  inn. 
That  man  is  honest.  I  hate  him,  but  he  is  honest.  Why 
do  you  stand  there  staring  at  me?  Were  you  not  the 
first  to  say  that  if  we  are  impostors  we  should  give  up 
everything  of  our  own  free-will?  And  now  you  seem  to 
think  that  I  will  fight  the  suit !  That  is  your  logic !  That 
is  all  the  consistency  you  have  acquired  in  your  travels! 
Go  and  tell  your  wife  that  you  are  nobody,  that  I  am 
nobody !  Go  and  tell  her  to  give  you  a  title,  a  name  for 
men  to  call  you  by !  Go  into  the  market  and  see  whether 
you  can  find  a  name  for  your  father !  Go  and  hire  a  house 
for  us  to  live  in,  when  that  Neapolitan  devil  has  brought 
Flavia  Montevarchi  to  live  in  the  palace  where  your 
mother  died,  where  you  were  born  —  poor  Giovanni !  Not 
that  I  pity  you  any  more  than  I  pity  myself.  Why  should 
I?  You  are  young  and  have  done  this  house  the  honour 
to  spend  most  of  your  life  out  of  it.  But  after  all  —  poor 
Giovanni ! " 

Saracinesca  seized  his  son's  hand  and  looked  into  his 
eyes.  The  young  man's  face  was  perfectly  calm,  almost 
serene  in  its  expression  of  indifference  to  misfortune. 
His  whole  soul  was  preoccupied  by  greater  and  nobler 


278  SANT'  ILARIO. 

emotions  than  any  which  could  be  caused  by  worldly  loss. 
He  had  been  with  Corona  again,  had  talked  with  her  and 
had  seen  that  look  in  her  face  which  he  had  learned  to 
dread  more  than  he  had  ever  dreaded  anything  in  his 
life.  What  was  life  itself  without  that  which  her  eyes 
refused? 


CHAPTER   XIX. 

Prince  Montevarchi  was  very  much  surprised  when  he 
was  told  that  Anastase  Gouache  wished  to  see  him,  and 
as  he  was  very  much  occupied  with  the  details  of  the 
suit  his  first  impulse  was  to  decline  the  visit.  Although 
he  had  no  idea  that  matters  had  already  gone  so  far  be 
tween  the  Zouave  and  Faustina,  he  was  not,  however,  so 
blind  as  the  young  girl  had  supposed  him  to  be.  He  was 
naturally  observant,  like  most  men  who  devote  their 
lives  to  the  pursuit  of  their  own  interests,  and  it  had  not 
escaped  him  that  Faustina  and  Gouache  were  very  often 
to  be  seen  talking  together  in  the  world.  Had  he  pos 
sessed  a  sense  of  humour  he  might  possibly  have  thought 
that  it  would  be  inexpressibly  comical  if  Gouache  should 
take  it  into  his  head  to  fall  in  love  with  the  girl;  but  the 
Italians  are  not  a  humorous  people,  and  the  idea  did  not 
suggest  itself  to  the  old  gentleman.  He  consented  to 
receive  Gouache  because  he  thought  the  opportunity 
would  be  a  good  one  for  reading  the  young  man  a  lecture 
upon  the  humility  of  his  station,  and  upon  the  arrogance 
he  displayed  in  devoting  himself  thus  openly  to  the 
daughter  of  Casa  Montevarchi. 

"Good-day,  Monsieur  Gouache,"  he  said  solemnly,  as 
Anastase  entered.  "  Pray  be  seated.  To  what  do  I  owe 
the  honour  of  your  visit?  " 

Anastase  had  put  on  a  perfectly  new  uniform  for  the 
interview,  and  his  movements  were  more  than  usually 
alert  and  his  manners  a  shade  more  elaborate  and  formal 
than  on  ordinary  occasions.  He  felt  and  behaved  as 
young  men  of  good  birth  do  who  are  serving  their  year 
in  the  army,  and  who,  having  put  on  their  smartest 


SANT'  ILARIO.  279 

tunic,  hope  that  in  a  half  light  they  may  be  taken  for 
officers. 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  explain  my  position  in  the  first 
place?"  he  asked,  seating  himself  and  twisting  his  cap 
slowly  in  his  hands. 

"  Your  position?  By  all  means,  if  you  desire  to  do  so. 
It  is  an  excellent  rule  in  all  discourses  to  put  the  defini 
tion  before  the  argument.  Nevertheless,  if  you  would 
inform  me  of  the  nature  of  the  affair,  it  might  help  me 
to  understand  you  better." 

"  It  is  very  delicate  —  but  I  will  try  to  be  plain.  What 
I  am,  I  think  you  know  already.  I  am  a  painter  and  I 
have  been  successful.  For  the  present,  I  am  a  Zouave, 
but  my  military  service  does  not  greatly  interfere  with 
my  profession.  We  have  a  good  deal  of  time  upon  our 
hands.  My  pictures  bring  me  a  larger  income  than  I  can 
spend." 

"  I  congratulate  you, "  observed  Montevarchi,  opening 
his  small  eyes  in  some  astonishment.  "  The  pursuit  of 
the  fine  arts  is  not  generally  very  lucrative.  For  myself, 
I  confess  that  I  am  satisfied  with  those  treasures  which 
my  father  has  left  me.  I  am  very  fond  of  pictures,  it  is 
true;  but  you  will  understand  that,  when  a  gallery  is 
filled,  it  is  full.  You  comprehend,  I  am  sure?  Much 
as  I  might  wish  to  own  some  of  the  works  of  the  modern 
French  school,  the  double  disadvantage  of  possessing 
already  so  many  canvases,  and  the  still  stronger  con 
sideration  of  my  limited  fortune  —  yes,  limited,  I  assure 
you " 

" Pardon  me,"  interrupted  Gouache,  whose  face  red 
dened  suddenly,  "  I  had  no  intention  of  proposing  to  sell 
you  a  picture.  I  am  not  in  the  habit  of  advertising 
myself  nor  of  soliciting  orders  for  my  work." 

"My  dear  sir!"  exclaimed  the  prince,  seeing  that  he 
was  on  a  wrong  tack,  "have  I  suggested  such  a  thing? 
If  my  words  conveyed  the  idea,  pray  accept  all  my 
excuses.  Since  you  had  mentioned  the  subject  of  art, 
my  thoughts  naturally  were  directed  to  my  gallery  of 
pictures.  I  am  delighted  to  hear  of  your  success,  for  you 
know  how  much  interest  we  all  feel  in  him  who  was  the 
victim  of  such  an  unfortunate  accident,  due  doubtless  to 
the  carelessness  of  my  men." 


280  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

"  Pray  do  not  recall  that !  Your  hospitality  more  than 
repaid  me  for  the  little  I  suffered.  The  matter  concern 
ing  which  I  wish  to  speak  to  you  is  a  very  serious  one, 
and  I  hope  you  will  believe  that  I  have  considered  it 
well  before  taking  a  step  which  may  at  first  surprise  you. 
To  be  plain,  I  come  to  ask  you  to  confer  upon  me  the 
honour  of  Donna  Faustina  Montevarchi's  hand." 

Montevarchi  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  speechless  with 
amazement.  He  seemed  to  gasp  for  breath  as  his  long 
fingers  pressed  the  green  table-cover  before  him.  His 
small  eyes  were  wide  open,  and  his  toothless  jaw  dropped. 
Gouache  feared  that  he  was  going  to  be  taken  ill. 

"  You !  "  cried  the  old  man  in  a  cracked  voice,  when  he 
had  recovered  himself  enough  to  be  able  to  speak. 

"Yes,"  answered  Anastase,  who  was  beginning  to  feel 
very  nervous  as  he  observed  the  first  results  of  his  pro 
posal.  He  had  never  before  quite  realised  how  utterly 
absurd  the  match  would  seem  to  Montevarchi.  "  Yes, " 
he  repeated.  "  Is  the  idea  so  surprising?  Is  it  incon 
ceivable  to  you  that  I  should  love  your  daughter?  Can 
you  not  understand " 

"  I  understand  that  you  are  wholly  mad !  "  exclaimed 
the  prince,  still  staring  at  his  visitor  in  blank  astonish 
ment. 

"  No,  I  am  not  mad.     I  love  Donna  Faustina " 

"  You !  You  dare  to  love  Faustina !  You,  a  painter, 
a  man  with  a  profession  and  with  nothing  but  what  you 
earn!  You,  a  Zouave,  a  man  without  a  name,  with 
out " 

"  You  are  an  old  man,  prince,  but  the  fact  of  my  hav 
ing  made  you  an  hounourable  proposition  does  not  give 
you  the  right  to  insult  me."  The  words  were  spoken  in 
a  sharp,  determined  voice,  and  brought  Montevarchi  to 
his  senses.  He  was  a  terrible  coward  and  would  rather 
go  to  a  considerable  expense  than  face  an  angry  man. 

"Insult  you,  my  dear  sir?  I  would  not  think  of  it!  " 
he  answered  in  a  very  different  tone.  "But  my  dear 
Monsieur  Gouache,  I  fear  that  this  is  quite  impossible ! 
In  the  first  place,  my  daughter's  marriage  is  already 
arranged.  The  negotiations  have  been  proceeding  for 
some  time  —  she  is  to  marry  Frangipani  —  you  must  have 
heard  it.  And,  moreover,  with  all  due  respect  for  the 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  281 

position  you  have  gained  by  your  immense  talent  — 
immense,  my  dear  friend,  I  am  the  first  to  say  it  —  the 
instability  of  human  affairs  obliges  me  to  seek  for  her  a 
fortune,  which  depends  upon  the  vulgar  possession  of 
wealth  rather  than  upon  those  divine  gifts  of  genius  with 
which  you  are  so  richly  endowed." 

The  change  from  anger  to  flattery  was  so  sudden  that 
Gouache  was  confounded  and  could  not  find  words  in 
which  to  answer  what  was  said  to  him.  Monte varchi's 
eyes  had  lost  their  expression  of  astonishment,  and  a 
bland  smile  played  about  the  corners  of  his  sour  mouth, 
while  he  rubbed  his  bony  hands  slowly  together,  nodding 
his  head  at  every  comma  of  his  elaborate  speech.  Anas- 
tase  saw,  however,  that  there  was  not  the  slightest  hope 
that  his  proposal  would  ever  be  entertained,  and  by  his 
own  sensations  he  knew  that  he  had  always  expected 
this  result.  He  felt  no  disappointment,  and  it  seemed 
to  him  that  he  was  in  the  same  position  in  which  he  had 
been  before  he  had  spoken.  On  the  other  hand  he  was 
outraged  by  the  words  that  had  fallen  from  Montevar- 
chi'slips  in  the  first  moments  of  anger  and  astonishment. 
A  painter,  a  man  with  a  profession,  without  a  name! 
Gouache  was  too  human  not  to  feel  the  sting  of  each 
truth  as  it  was  uttered.  He  would  have  defined  himself 
in  very  much  the  same  way  without  the  least  false  pride ; 
but  to  hear  his  own  estimate  of  himself,  given  by  another 
person  as  the  true  one,  was  hard  to  bear.  A  painter, 
yes  —  he  was  proud  of  it.  A  man  with  a  profession,  yes 
—  was  it  not  far  nobler  to  earn  money  by  good  work  than 
to  inherit  what  others  had  stolen  in  former  times?  A 
man  without  a  name  —  was  not  his  own  beginning  to  be 
famous,  and  was  it  not  better  to  make  the  name  Gouache 
glorious  by  his  own  efforts  than  to  be  called  Orsini 
because  one's  ancestors  had  been  fierce  and  lawless  as 
bears,  or  Sciarra  because  one's  progenitor  had  slapped 
the  face  of  a  pope?  Doubtless  it  was  a  finer  thing  to  be 
great  by  one's  own  efforts  in  the  pursuit  of  a  noble  art 
than  to  inherit  a  greatness  originally  founded  upon  a 
superior  rapacity,  and  a  greater  physical  strength  than 
had  characterised  the  ordinary  men  of  the  period. 
Nevertheless,  Gouache  knew  with  shame  that  at  that 
moment  he  wished  that  his  name  could  be  changed  to 


282  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Frangipani,  and  the  fabric  of  his  independence,  of  which 
he  had  so  long  been  proud,  was  shaken  to  its  foundations 
as  he  realised  that  in  spite  of  all  fame,  all  glory,  all 
genius,  he  could  never  be  what  the  miserly,  cowardly, 
lying  old  man  before  him  was  by  birth  —  a  Koman 
prince.  The  conclusion  was  at  once  inexpressibly 
humiliating  and  supremely  ludicrous.  He  felt  himself 
laughable  in  his  own  eyes,  and  was  conscious  that  a 
smile  was  on  his  face,  which  Montevarchi  would  not 
understand.  The  old  gentleman  was  still  talking. 

"I  cannot  tell  you,"  he  was  saying,  "how  much  I 
regret  my  total  inability  to  comply  with  a  request  which 
evidently  proceeds  from  the  best  motives,  I  might  almost 
say  from  the  heart  itself.  Alas !  my  dear  friend,  we  are 
not  all  masters  of  our  actions.  The  cares  of  a  household 
like  mine  require  a  foresight,  an  hourly  attention,  an 
unselfish  devotion  which  we  can  only  hope  to  obtain  by 
constant " 

He  was  going  to  say  "  by  constant  recourse  to  prayer, " 
but  he  reflected  that  Gouache  was  probably  not  of  a 
religious  turn  of  mind,  and  he  changed  the  sentence. 

" by  constant  study  of  the  subject.  Situated  as  I 

am,  a  Koman  in  the  midst  of  Komans,  I  am  obliged  to 
consider  the  traditions  of  my  own  people  in  respect  of 
all  the  great  affairs  of  life.  Believe  me,  I  entreat  you, 
that,  far  from  having  any  prejudice  against  yourself,  I 
should  rejoice  sincerely  could  I  take  you  by  the  hand 
and  call  you  my  son.  But  how  can  I  act?  What  can  I 
do?  Go  to  your  own  country,  dear  Monsieur  Gouache, 
think  no  more  of  us,  or  of  our  daughters,  marry  a  woman 
of  your  own  nation,  and  you  will  not  be  disappointed  in 
your  dreams  of  matrimonial  felicity !  " 

"  In  other  words,  you  refuse  altogether  to  listen  to  my 
proposal?"  By  this  time  Gouache  was  able  to  put  the 
question  calmly. 

"  Alas,  yes !  "  replied  the  prince  with  an  air  of  mock 
regret  that  exasperated  the  young  man  beyond  measure. 
"I  cannot  think  of  it,  though  you  are  indeed  a  most 
sympathetic  young  man." 

"  In  that  case  I  will  not  trespass  upon  your  time  any 
longer,"  said  Gouache,  who  was  beginning  to  fear  lest 
his  coolness  should  forsake  him. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  283 

As  he  descended  the  broad  marble  stairs  his  detesta 
tion  of  the  old  hypocrite  overcame  him,  and  his  wrath 
broke  out. 

"  You  shall  pay  me  for  this  some  day,  you  old  scoun 
drel  !  "  he  said  aloud,  very  savagely. 

Montevarchi  remained  in  his  study  after  Gouache  had 
gone.  A  sour  smile  distorted  his  thin  lips,  and  the 
expression  became  more  and  more  accented  until  the  old 
man  broke  into  a  laugh  that  rang  drily  against  the  vaulted 
ceiling.  Some  one  knocked  at  the  door,  and  his  merri 
ment  disappeared  instantly.  Arnoldo  Meschini  entered 
the  room.  There  was  something  unusual  about  his 
appearance  which  attracted  the  prince's  attention  at 
once. 

"  Has  anything  happened?  " 

"Everything.  The  case  is  won.  Your  Excellency's 
son-in-law  is  Prince  Saracinesca." 

The  librarian's  bright  eyes  gleamed  with  exultation 
and  there  was  a  slight  flush  in  his  cheeks  that  contrasted 
oddly  with  his  yellow  skin.  A  disagreeable  smile  made 
his  intelligent  face  more  ugly  than  usual.  He  stood  half 
way  between  the  door  and  his  employer,  his  long  arms 
hanging  awkwardly  by  his  sides,  his  head  thrust  for 
ward,  his  knees  a  little  bent,  assuming  by  habit  a  servile 
attitude  of  attention,  but  betraying  in  his  look  that  he 
felt  himself  his  master's  master. 

Montevarchi  started  as  he  heard  the  news.  Then  he 
leaned  eagerly  across  the  table,  his  fingers  as  usual  slowly 
scratching  the  green  cloth. 

"  Are  you  quite  sure  of  it?  "  he  asked  in  a  trembling 
voice.  "  Have  you  got  the  verdict?  " 

Meschini  produced  a  tattered  pocket-book,  and  drew 
from  it  a  piece  of  stamped  paper,  which  he  carefully 
unfolded  and  handed  to  the  prince. 

"There  is  an  attested  note  of  it.     See  for  yourself." 

Montevarchi  hastily  looked  over  the  small  document, 
and  his  face  flushed  slowly  till  it  was  almost  purple, 
while  the  paper  quivered  in  his  hold.  It  was  clear  that 
everything  had  succeeded  as  he  had  hoped,  and  that  his 
most  sanguine  expectations  were  fully  realised.  His 
thoughts  suddenly  recurred  to  Gouache,  and  he  laughed 
again  at  the  young  man's  assurance. 


284  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"  Was  Saracinesca  in  the  court?  "  he  asked  presently. 

"No.  There  was  no  one  connected  with  the  case 
except  the  lawyers  on  each  side.  It  did  not  amount  to  a 
trial.  The  Signor  Marchese's  side  produced  the  papers 
proving  his  identity,  and  the  original  deed  was  submitted. 
The  prince's  side  stated  that  his  Excellency  was  con 
vinced  of  the  justice  of  the  claim  and  would  make  no 
opposition.  Thereupon  the  court  granted  an  order  to 
the  effect  that  the  Signor  Marchese  was  the  heir  provided 
for  in  the  clause  and  was  entitled  to  enjoy  all  the  advan 
tages  arising  from  the  inheritance ;  but  that,  as  there  was 
no  opposition  made  by  the  defendants,  the  subsequent 
transactions  would  be  left  in  the  hands  of  the  family, 
the  court  reserving  the  power  to  enforce  the  transfer  in 
case  any  difficulty  should  arise  hereafter.  Of  course,  it 
will  take  several  months  to  make  the  division,  as  the 
Signor  Marchese  will  only  receive  the  direct  inheritance 
of  his  great-grandfather,  while  the  Saracinesca  retain  all 
that  has  come  to  them  by  their  marriages  during  the  last 
four  generations." 

"Of  course.  Who  will  be  employed  to  make  the 
division?" 

"  Half  Rome,  I  fancy.     It  will  be  an  endless  business. " 

"But  San  Giacinto  is  prince.  He  will  do  homage  for 
his  titles  next  Epiphany." 

"  Yes.  He  must  present  his  ten  pounds  of  wax  and  a 
silver  bowl  —  cheap ! "  observed  Meschini  with  a  grin. 

It  may  be  explained  here  that  the  families  of  the 
Koman  nobility  were  all  subject  to  a  yearly  tribute  of 
merely  nominal  value,  which  they  presented  to  the  Pope 
at  the  Feast  of  the  Epiphany.  The  custom  was  feudal, 
the  Pope  having  been  the  feudal  lord  of  all  the  nobles 
until  1870.  The  tribute  generally  consisted  of  a  certain 
weight  of  pure  wax,  or  of  a  piece  of  silver  of  a  specified 
value,  or  sometimes  of  both.  As  an  instance  of  the  sur 
vival  of  such  customs  in  other  countries,  I  may  mention 
the  case  of  one  great  Irish  family  which  to  this  day 
receives  from  another  a  yearly  tribute,  paid  alternately 
in  the  shape  of  a  golden  rose  and  a  golden  spur. 

"  So  we  have  won  everything !  "  exclaimed  Montevarchi 
after  a  pause,  looking  hard  at  the  librarian,  as  though 
trying  to  read  his  thoughts.  "  We  have  won  everything, 


SANT'  ILABIO.  285 

and  the  thanks  are  due  to  you,  my  good  friend,  to  you, 
the  faithful  and  devoted  companion  who  has  helped  me 
to  accomplish  this  act  of  true  justice.  Ah,  how  can  I 
ever  express  to  you  my  gratitude ! " 

"  The  means  of  expression  were  mentioned  in  our  agree 
ment,"  answered  Meschini  with  a  servile  inclination. 
"  I  agreed  to  do  the  work  for  your  Excellency  at  a  certain 
fixed  price,  as  your  Excellency  may  remember.  Beyond 
that  I  ask  nothing.  I  am  too  humble  an  individual  to 
enjoy  the  honour  of  Prince  Montevarchi's  personal  grati 
tude." 

"  Yes,  of  course,  but  that  is  mere  money ! "  said  the 
old  gentleman  somewhat  hastily,  but  contemptuously 
withal.  "  Gratitude  proceeds  from  the  heart,  not  from 
the  purse.  When  I  think  of  all  the  work  you  have  done, 
of  the  unselfish  way  in  which  you  have  devoted  yourself 
to  this  object,  I  feel  that  money  can  never  repay  you. 
Money  is  sordid  trash,  Meschini,  sordid  trash !  Let  us 
not  talk  about  it.  Are  we  not  friends?  The  most  deli 
cate  sensibilities  of  my  soul  rejoice  when  I  consider  what 
we  have  accomplished  together.  There  is  not  another 
man  in  Rome  whom  I  would  trust  as  I  trust  you,  most 
faithful  of  men !  " 

"The  Signor  Principe  is  too  kind,"  replied  Meschini. 
"  Nevertheless,  I  repeat  that  I  am  quite  unworthy  of  such 
gratitude  for  having  merely  performed  my  part  in  a 
business  transaction,  especially  in  one  wherein  my  own 
interests  were  so  deeply  concerned." 

"  My  only  regret  is  that  my  son-in-law  can  never  know 
the  share  you  have  had  in  his  success.  But  that,  alas,  is 
quite  impossible.  How,  indeed,  would  it  be  practicable 
to  inform  him!  And  my  daughter,  too!  She  would 
remember  you  in  all  her  innocent  prayers,  even  as  I 
shall  do  henceforth!  No,  Meschini,  it  is  ordained  that 
I,  and  I  alone,  should  be  the  means  of  expressing  to  you 
the  heartfelt  thanks  of  those  whom  you  have  so  highly 
benefited,  but  who  unfortunately  can  never  know  the 
name  of  their  benefactor.  Tell  me  now,  did  the  men 
of  the  law  look  long  at  the  documents?  Did  they  show 
any  hesitation?  Have  you  any  reason  to  believe  that 
their  attention  was  roused,  arrested  by  —  by  the  writ 
ing?" 


286  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"  No,  indeed !  I  should  be  a  poor  workman  if  a  parcel 
of  lawyers  could  detect  my  handwriting!  " 

"  It  is  a  miracle ! "  exclaimed  Montevarchi,  devoutly. 
"  I  consider  that  heaven  has  interposed  directly  to  accom 
plish  the  ends  of  justice.  An  angel  guided  your  hand,  my 
dear  friend,  to  make  you  the  instrument  of  good ! " 

"  I  am  quite  ready  to  believe  it.  The  transaction  has 
been  as  providential  for  me  as  for  the  Signer  Marchese." 

"Yes,"  answered  the  prince  rather  drily.  "And  now, 
my  dear  Meschini,  will  you  leave  me  for  a  time?  I  have 
appointed  this  hour  to  see  my  last  remaining  daughter 
concerning  her  marriage.  She  is  the  last  of  those  fair 
flowers !  Ah  me !  How  sad  a  thing  it  is  to  part  with 
those  we  love  so  well !  But  we  have  the  consolation  of 
knowing  that  it  is  for  their  good,  that  consolation,  that 
satisfaction  which  only  come  to  us  when  we  have  faith 
fully  done  our  duty.  Eeturn  to  your  library,  therefore, 
Meschini,  for  the  present.  The  consciousness  of  good 
well  done  is  yours  also  to-day,  and  will  soothe  the  hours 
of  solitude  and  make  your  new  labours  sweet.  The 
reward  of  righteousness  is  in  itself  and  of  itself.  Good 
bye,  my  friend,  good-bye  !  Thank  you,  thank  you " 

"  Would  it  be  agreeable  to  your  Excellency  to  let  me 
have  the  money  now?"  asked  the  librarian.  There  was 
a  firmness  in  the  tone  that  startled  Montevarchi. 

"What  money?"  he  inquired  with  a  well-feigned  sur 
prise.  "  I  do  not  understand. " 

"Twenty  thousand  scudi,  the  price  of  the  work," 
replied  Meschini  with  alarming  bluntness. 

"  Twenty  thousand  scudi ! "  cried  the  prince.  "  I  re 
member  that  there  was  some  mention  of  a  sum  —  two 
thousand,  I  think  I  said.  Even  that  is  enormous,  but  I 
was  carried  away  in  the  excitement  of  the  moment.  We 
are  all  liable  to  such  weakness " 

"  You  agreed  to  pay  me  twenty  thousand  scudi  in  cash 
on  the  day  that  the  verdict  was  given  in  favour  of  your 
son-in-law." 

"I  never  agreed  to  anything  of  the  kind.  My  dear 
friend,  success  has  quite  turned  your  head !  I  have  not 
so  much  money  at  my  disposal  in  the  whole  world. " 

"You  cannot  afford  to  make  a  fool  of  me,"  cried 
Meschini,  making  a  step  forward.  His  face  was  red 


SANT'  ILARIO.  287 

with  anger,  and  his  long  arms  made  odd  gestures.  "  Will 
you  pay  me  the  money  or  not?" 

"  If  you  take  this  tone  with  me  I  will  pay  you  nothing 
whatever.  I  shall  even  cease  to  feel  any  sense  of  grati 
tude  " 

"  To  hell  with  your  gratitude ! "  exclaimed  the  other 
fiercely.  "Either  you  pay  me  the  money  now,  or  I  go 
at  once  to  the  authorities  and  denounce  the  whole 
treachery." 

"You  will  only  go  to  the  galleys  if  you  do." 

"You  will  go  with  me." 

"Not  at  all.  Have  you  any  proof  that  I  have  had 
anything  to  do  with  the  matter?  I  tell  you  that  you  are 
quite  mad.  If  you  wanted  to  play  this  trick  on  me  you 
should  have  made  me  sign  an  agreement.  Even  then  I 
would  have  argued  that  since  you  had  forged  the  docu 
ments  you  had,  of  course,  forged  the  agreement  also. 
But  you  have  nothing,  not  so  much  as  a  scrap  of  paper 
to  show  against  me.  Be  reasonable  and  I  will  be  mag 
nanimous.  I  will  give  you  the  two  thousand  I  spoke  of 
in  the  heat  of  anticipation " 

"  You  will  give  me  the  twenty  thousand  you  solemnly 
promised  me,"  said  Meschini,  with  concentrated  anger. 

Montevarchi  rose  slowly  from  his  chair  and  rang  the 
bell.  He  knew  that  Meschini  would  not  be  so  foolish  as 
to  expose  himself,  and  would  continue  to  hope  that  he 
might  ultimately  get  what  he  asked. 

"I  cannot  argue  with  a  madman,"  he  said  calmly. 

He  was  not  in  the  least  afraid  of  the  librarian.  The 
idea  never  entered  his  mind  that  the  middle-aged,  round- 
shouldered  scholar  could  be  dangerous.  A  single  word 
from  Gouache,  a  glance  of  the  artist's  eye  had  cowed  him 
less  than  an  hour  ago;  but  Meschini's  fury  left  him  in 
different.  The  latter  saw  that  for  the  present  there  was 
nothing  to  be  done.  To  continue  such  a  scene  before  a 
servant  would  be  the  worst  kind  of  folly. 

"We  will  talk  the  matter  over  at  another  time,"  he 
said  sullenly,  as  he  left  the  study  by  a  small  door  which 
opened  upon  a  corridor  in  communication  with  the 
library. 

Montevarchi  sent  the  servant  who  answered  the  bell 
with  a  message  begging  Donna  Faustina  to  come  to  the 


288  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

study  at  once.  Since  it  was  to  be  a  day  of  interviews  he 
determined  to  state  the  case  plainly  to  his  daughter,  and 
bid  her  make  ready  to  comply  with  his  will  in  case  the 
match  with  Frangipani  turned  out  to  be  possible.  He 
seemed  no  more  disturbed  by  Meschini's  anger  than  if 
the  affair  had  not  concerned  him  in  the  least.  He  had, 
indeed,  long  foreseen  what  would  occur,  and  even  at  the 
moment  when  he  had  promised  the  bribe  he  was  fully 
determined  never  to  pay  it.  The  librarian  had  taken  the 
bait  greedily,  and  it  was  his  own  fault  if  the  result  did 
not  suit  him.  He  had  no  redress,  as  Montevarchi  had 
told  him ;  there  was  not  so  much  as  a  note  to  serve  as  a 
record  of  the  bargain.  Meschini  had  executed  the  for 
gery,  and  he  would  have  to  ruin  himself  in  order  to 
bring  any  pressure  to  bear  upon  his  employer.  This  the 
latter  felt  sure  that  he  would  not  do,  even  if  driven  to 
extremities.  Meschini's  nature  was  avaricious  and  there 
was  no  reason  to  suppose  that  he  was  tired  of  life,  or 
ready  to  go  to  the  galleys  for  a  bit  of  personal  ven 
geance,  when,  by  exercising  a  little  patience,  he  might 
ultimately  hope  to  get  some  advantage  out  of  the  crime 
he  had  committed.  Montevarchi  meant  to  pay  him  what 
he  considered  a  fair  price  for  the  work,  and  he  did  not 
see  that  Meschini  had  any  means  of  compelling  him  to 
pay  more.  Now  that  the  thing  was  done,  he  began  to 
regret  that  he  himself  had  not  made  some  agreement 
with  San  Giacinto,  but  a  moment's  reflection  sufficed  to 
banish  the  thought  as  unworthy  of  his  superior  astute 
ness.  His  avarice  was  on  a  large  scale  and  was  merging 
into  ambition.  It  might  have  been  foreseen  that,  after 
having  married  one  of  his  two  remaining  daughters  to  a 
man  who  had  turned  out  to  be  Prince  Saracinesca,  his 
determination  to  match  Faustina  with  Frangipani  would 
be  even  stronger  than  it  had  been  before.  Hence  his 
sudden  wish  to  see  Faustina  and  to  prepare  her  mind  for 
what  was  about  to  take  place.  All  at  once  it  seemed  as 
though  he  could  not  act  quickly  enough  to  satisfy  his 
desire  of  accomplishment.  He  felt  as  an  old  man  may 
feel  who,  at  the  end  of  a  busy  life,  sees  countless  things 
before  him  which  he  would  still  do,  and  hates  the  thought 
of  dying  before  all  are  done.  A  feverish  haste  to  com 
plete  this  last  step  in  the  aggrandisement  of  his  family, 


SANT'  ILARIO.  289 

overcame  the  old  prince.  He  could  not  understand  why 
he  had  submitted  to  wasting  his  time  with  Gouache  and 
Meschini  instead  of  busying  himself  actively  in  the  ac 
complishment  of  his  purpose.  There  was  no  reason  for 
waiting  any  longer.  Frangipani's  father  had  already 
half-agreed  to  the  match,  and  what  remained  to  be  done 
involved  only  a  question  of  financial  details. 

As  he  sat  waiting  for  Faustina  a  great  horror  of  death 
rose  suddenly  and  clearly  before  him.  He  was  not  a  very 
old  man  and  he  would  have  found  it  hard  to  account  for 
the  sensation.  It  is  a  notable  fact,  too,  that  he  feared 
death  rather  because  it  might  prevent  him  from  carrying 
out  his  intentions,  than  because  his  conscience  was  bur 
dened  with  the  recollection  of  many  misdeeds.  His  whole 
existence  had  been  passed  in  such  an  intricate  labyrinth 
of  duplicity  towards  others  and  towards  himself  that  he 
no  longer  distinguished  between  the  true  and  the  untrue. 
Even  in  this  last  great  fraud  he  had  so  consistently  de 
ceived  his  own  sense  of  veracity  that  he  almost  felt  him 
self  to  be  the  instrument  of  justice  he  assumed  to  be. 
The  case  was  a  delicate  one,  too,  for  the  most  unpreju 
diced  person  could  hardly  have  escaped  feeling  sym 
pathy  for  San  Giacinto,  the  victim  of  his  ancestor's 
imprudence.  Montevarchi  found  it  very  easy  to  believe 
that  it  was  permissible  to  employ  any  means  in  order  to 
gain  such  an  end,  and  although  he  might  have  regarded 
the  actual  work  of  the  forgery  in  the  light  of  a  crime, 
venial  indeed,  though  contrary  to  the  law,  his  own  share 
in  the  transaction,  as  instigator  of  the  deed  itself,  ap 
peared  to  be  defensible  by  a  whole  multitude  of  reasons. 
San  Giacinto,  by  all  the  traditions  of  primogeniture  dear 
to  the  heart  of  the  Roman  noble,  was  the  head  of  the 
family  of  Saracinesca.  But  for  a  piece  of  folly,  hardly 
to  be  equalled  in  Monte  varchi's  experience,  San  Gia 
cinto  would  have  been  in  possession  of  the  estates  and 
titles  without  opposition  or  contradiction  since  the  day 
of  his  father's  death.  The  mere  fact  that  the  Saracinesca 
had  not  defended  the  case  proved  that  they  admitted  the 
justice  of  their  cousin's  claims.  Had  old  Leone  foreseen 
the  contingency  of  a  marriage  in  his  old  age,  he  would 
either  never  have  signed  the  deed  at  all,  or  else  he  would 
have  introduced  just  such  a  conditional  clause  as  had 

u 


290  SANT'  JLARIO. 

been  forged  by  Meschini.  When  a  great  injustice  has 
been  committed,  through  folly  or  carelessness,  when 
those  who  have  been  most  benefited  by  it  admit  that 
injustice,  when  to  redress  it  is  merely  to  act  in  accord 
ance  with  the  spirit  of  the  laws,  is  it  a  crime  then  to 
bring  about  so  much  good  by  merely  sacrificing  a  scruple 
of  conscience,  by  employing  some  one  to  restore  an  in 
heritance  to  its  rightful  possessor  with  a  few  clever 
strokes  of  the  pen?  The  answer  seemed  so  clear  to  Mon- 
tevarchi  that  he  did  not  even  ask  himself  the  question. 
Indeed  it  would  have  been  superfluous  to  do  so,  for  he 
had  so  often  satisfied  all  objections  to  doubtful  courses  by 
a  similar  sophistry  that  he  knew  beforehand  what  reply 
would  present  itself  to  his  self-inquiry.  He  did  not  even 
experience  a  sense  of  relief  as  he  turned  from  the  con 
templation  of  what  he  had  just  done  to  the  question  of 
Faustina's  marriage,  in  which  there  was  nothing  that 
could  torment  his  conscience.  He  was  not  even  aware 
that  he  ought  to  recognise  a  difference  between  the  two 
affairs.  He  was  in  great  haste  to  settle  the  preliminaries, 
and  that  was  all.  If  he  should  die,  he  thought,  the  prin 
cess  would  have  her  own  way  in  everything,  and  would 
doubtless  let  Faustina  throw  herself  away  upon  some 
such  man  as  Gouache.  The  thought  roused  him  from  his 
reverie,  and  at  the  same  time  brought  a  sour  smile  to 
his  face.  Gouache,  of  all  people !  He  looked  up  and  saw 
that  Faustina  had  entered  and  was  standing  before  him, 
as  though  expecting  him  to  speak.  Her  delicate,  angelic 
features  were  pale,  and  she  held  her  small  hands  folded 
before  her.  She  had  discovered  by  some  means  that 
Gouache  had  been  with  her  father  and  she  feared  that 
something  unpleasant  had  happened  and  that  she  was 
about  to  be  called  to  account.  The  vision  of  Frangipani, 
too,  was  present  in  her  mind,  and  she  anticipated  a 
stormy  interview.  But  her  mind  was  made  up;  she 
would  have  Anastase  or  she  would  have  nobody.  The 
two  exchanged  a  preliminary  glance  before  either  spoke. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  291 


CHAPTER  XX. 

Montevarchi  made  his  daughter  sit  beside  him  and 
took  her  hand  affectionately  in  his,  assuming  at  the  same 
time  the  expression  of  sanctimonious  superiority  he 
always  wore  when  he  mentioned  the  cares  of  his  house 
hold  or  was  engaged  in  regulating  any  matter  of  impor 
tance  in  his  family.  Flavia  used  to  imitate  the  look 
admirably,  to  the  delight  of  her  brothers  and  sisters. 
He  smiled  meaningly,  pressed  the  girl's  fingers,  and 
smiled  again,  attempting  in  vain  to  elicit  some  response. 
But  Faustina  remained  cold  and  indifferent,  for  she  was 
used  to  her  father's  ways  and  did  not  like  them. 

"  You  know  what  I  am  going  to  say,  I  am  sure, "  he 
began.  "  It  concerns  what  must  be  very  near  your  heart, 
my  dear  child." 

"I  do  not  know  what  it  can  be,"  answered  Faustina, 
gravely.  She  was  too  well  brought  up  to  show  any  of 
the  dislike  she  felt  for  her  father's  way  of  doing  things, 
but  she  was  willing  to  make  it  as  hard  as  possible  for 
him  to  express  himself. 

•  "Cannot  you  guess  what  it  is?"  asked  the  old  man, 
with  a  ludicrous  attempt  at  banter.  "  What  is  it  that  is 
nearest  to  every  girl's  heart?  Is  not  that  little  heart  of 
yours  already  a  resort  of  the  juvenile  deity?" 

"I  do  not  understand  you,  papa." 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear  —  I  see  that  your  education  has 
not  included  a  course  of  mythology.  It  is  quite  as  well, 
perhaps,  as  those  heathens  are  poor  company  for  the 
young.  I  refer  to  marriage,  Faustina,  to  that  all-impor 
tant  step  which  you  are  soon  to  take." 

"  Have  you  quite  decided  to  marry  me  to  Frangipani?  " 
asked  the  young  girl  with  a  calmness  that  somewhat 
disconcerted  her  father. 

"  How  boldly  you  speak  of  it ! "  he  exclaimed  with  a 
sigh  of  disapproval.  "  I  will  not,  however,  conceal  from 
you  that  I  hope " 

"Pray  talk  plainly  with  me,  papa!"  cried  Faustina 
suddenly  looking  up.  "I  cannot  bear  this  suspense." 


292  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

"Ah!  Is  it  so,  little  one?"  Montevarchi  shook  his 
finger  playfully  at  her.  "  I  thought  I  should  find  you 
ready!  So  you  are  anxious  to  become  a  princess  at  once? 
Well,  well,  all  women  are  alike !  " 

Faustina  drew  herself  up  a  little  and  fixed  her  deep 
brown  eyes  upon  her  father's  face,  very  quietly  and 
solemnly. 

"  You  misunderstand  me, "  she  said.  "  I  only  wish  to 
know  your  decision  in  order  that  I  may  give  you  my 
answer." 

"And  what  can  that  answer  be?  Have  I  not  chosen 
wisely,  a  husband  fit  for  you  in  every  way?  " 

"  From  your  point  of  view,  I  have  no  doubt  of  it." 

"  I  trust  you  are  not  about  to  commit  the  unpardonable 
folly  of  differing  from  me,  my  daughter, "  answered  Mon 
tevarchi,  with  a  sudden  change  of  tone  indicative  of 
rising  displeasure.  "It  is  for  me  to  decide,  for  you  to 
accept  my  decision." 

"Upon  other  points,  yes.  In  the  question  of  marriage 
I  think  I  have  something  to  say." 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  can  have  any  objections  to  the 
match  I  have  found  for  you?  Is  it  possible  that  you  are 
so  foolish  as  to  fancy  that  at  your  age  you  can  under 
stand  these  things  better  than  I?  Faustina,  I  would  not 
have  believed  it ! " 

"  How  can  you  understand  what  I  feel?  " 

"  It  is  not  a  question  of  feeling,  it  is  a  question  of  wis 
dom,  of  foresight,  of  prudence,  of  twenty  qualities  which 
you  are  far  too  young  to  possess.  If  marriage  were  a 
matter  of  feeling,  of  vulgar  sentiment,  I  ask  you,  what 
would  become  of  the  world?  Of  what  use  is  it  to  have 
all  the  sentiment  in  life,  if  you  have  not  that  which 
makes  life  itself  possible?  Can  you  eat  sentiment?  Can 
you  harness  sentiment  in  a  carriage  and  make  it  execute 
a  trottata  in  the  Villa  Borghese?  Can  you  change  an  ounce 
of  sentiment  into  good  silver  scudi  and  make  it  pay  for 
a  journey  in  the  hot  weather?  No,  no,  my  child.  Heaven 
knows  that  I  am  not  avaricious.  Few  men,  I  think,  know 
better  than  I  that  wealth  is  perishable  stuff  —  but  so  is 
this  mortal  body,  and  the  perishable  must  be  nourished 
with  the  perishable,  lest  dust  return  to  dust  sooner  than 
it  would  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature.  Money  alone 


SANT*   ILARIO.  293 

will  not  give  happiness,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  most  im 
portant  to  possess  a  certain  amount  of  it." 

"  I  would  rather  do  without  it  than  be  miserable  all  my 
life  for  having  got  it." 

"Miserable  all  your  life?  Why  should  you  be  misera 
ble?  No  woman  should  be  unhappy  who  is  married  to  a 
good  man.  My  dear,  this  matter  admits  of  no  discus 
sion.  Frangipani  is  young,  handsome,  of  irreproachable 
moral  character,  heir  to  a  great  fortune  and  to  a  great 
name.  You  desire  to  be  in  love.  Good.  Love  will  come, 
the  reward  of  having  chosen  wisely.  It  will  be  time 
enough  then  to  think  of  your  sentiments.  Dear  me!  if 
we  all  began  life  by  thinking  of  sentiment,  where  would 
our  existence  end?  " 

"  Will  you  please  tell  me  whether  you  have  quite  de 
cided  that  I  am  to  marry  Frangipani?"  Faustina  found 
her  father's  discourses  intolerable,  and,  moreover,  she 
had  something  to  say  which  would  be  hard  to  express 
and  still  harder  to  sustain  by  her  actions. 

"  If  you  insist  upon  my  giving  you  an  answer,  which 
you  must  have  already  foreseen,  I  am  willing  to  tell  you 
that  I  have  quite  decided  upon  the  match." 

"  I  cannot  marry  him !  "  exclaimed  Faustina,  clasping 
her  hands  together  and  looking  into  her  father's  face. 

"  My  dear, "  answered  Montevarchi  with  a  smile,  "  it 
is  absolutely  decided.  We  cannot  draw  back.  You  must 
marry  him." 

"Must,  papa?  Oh,  think  what  you  are  saying!  I  am 
not  disobedient,  indeed  I  am  not.  I  have  always  sub 
mitted  to  you  in  everything.  But  this  —  no,  not  this. 
Bid  me  do  anything  else  —  anything " 

"  But,  my  child,  nothing  else  would  produce  the  same 
result.  Be  reasonable.  You  tell  me  to  impose  some  other 
duty  upon  you.  That  is  not  what  I  want.  I  must  see 
you  married  before  I  die,  and  I  am  an  old  man.  Each 
year,  each  day,  may  be  my  last.  Of  what  use  would  it 
be  that  you  should  make  another  sacrifice  to  please  me, 
when  the  one  thing  I  desire  is  to  see  you  well  settled 
with  a  good  husband?  I  have  done  what  I  could.  I  have 
procured  you  the  best  match  in  all  Home,  and  now  you 
implore  me  to  spare  you,  to  reverse  my  decision,  to  tell 
my  old  friend  Frangipani  that  you  will  not  have  his  son, 


294  SANT'  ILARIO. 

and  to  go  out  into  the  market  to  find  you  another  help 
meet.  It  is  not  reasonable.  I  had  expected  more  dutiful 
conduct  from  you." 

"  Is  it  undutif  ul  not  to  be  able  to  love  a  man  one  hardly 
knows,  when  one  is  ordered  to  do  so?" 

"  You  will  make  me  lose  my  patience,  Faustina ! "  ex 
claimed  Montevarchi,  in  angry  tones.  "  Have  I  not 
explained  to  you  the  nature  of  love?  Have  I  not  told 
you  that  you  can  love  your  husband  as  much  as  you 
please?  Is  it  not  a  father's  duty  to  direct  the  affections 
of  his  child  as  I  wish  to  do,  and  is  it  not  the  child's  first 
obligation  to  submit  to  its  father's  will  and  guidance? 
What  more  would  you  have?  In  truth,  you  are  very 
exacting!  " 

"I  am  very  unhappy!  "  The  young  girl  turned  away 
and  rested  her  elbow  on  the  table,  supporting  her  chin 
in  her  hand.  She  stared  absently  at  the  old  bookcases  as 
though  she  were  trying  to  read  the  titles  upon  the  dingy 
bindings.  Montevarchi  understood  her  words  to  convey 
a  submission  and  changed  his  tone  once  more. 

"  Well,  well,  my  dear,  you  will  never  regret  your  obedi 
ence,"  he  said.  "  Of  course,  my  beloved  child,  it  is  never 
easy  to  see  things  as  it  is  best  that  we  should  see  them. 
I  see  that  you  have  yielded  at  last " 

"  I  have  not  yielded  in  the  least ! "  cried  Faustina,  sud 
denly  facing  him,  with  an  expression  he  had  never  seen 
before. 

"  What  do  you  mean?"  asked  Montevarchi  in  consid 
erable  astonishment. 

"  What  I  say.  I  will  not  marry  Frangipani  —  I  will 
not!  Do  you  understand?" 

"No.  I  do  not  understand  such  language  from  my 
daughter ;  and  as  for  your  determination,  I  tell  you  that 
you  will  most  certainly  end  by  acting  as  I  wish  you  to 
act." 

"You  cannot  force  me  to  marry.  What  can  you  do? 
You  can  put  me  into  a  convent.  Do  you  think  that  would 
make  me  change  my  mind?  I  would  thank  God  for  any 
asylum  in  which  I  might  find  refuge  from  such  tyranny." 

"My  daughter,"  replied  the  prince  in  bland  tones, 
"  I  am  fully  resolved  not  to  be  angry  with  you.  Your 
undutif  ul  conduct  proceeds  from  ignorance,  which  is 


SANT'  ILARIO.  295 

never  an  offence,  though  it  is  always  a  misfortune.  If 
you  will  have  a  little  patience " 

"  I  have  none ! "  exclaimed  Faustina,  exasperated  by 
her  father's  manner.  "My  undutiful  conduct  does  not 
proceed  from  ignorance  —  it  proceeds  from  love,  from 
love  for  another  man,  whom  I  will  marry  if  I  marry  any 
one." 

"Faustina!  "  cried  Montevarchi,  holding  up  his  hands 
in  horror  and  amazement.  "  Do  you  dare  to  use  such 
language  to  your  father !  " 

"  I  dare  do  anything,  everything  —  I  dare  even  tell  you 
the  name  of  the  man  I  love  —  Anastase  Gouache !  " 

"  My  child !  My  child !  This  is  too  horrible !  I  must 
really  send  for  your  mother. " 

"Do  what  you  will." 

Faustina  had  risen  to  her  feet  and  was  standing  before 
one  of  the  old  bookcases,  her  hands  folded  before  her, 
her  eyes  on  fire,  her  delicate  mouth  scornfully  bent. 
Montevarchi,  who  was  really  startled  almost  out  of  his 
senses,  moved  cautiously  towards  the  bell,  looking  stead 
ily  at  his  daughter  all  the  while  as  though  he  dreaded 
some  fresh  outbreak.  There  was  something  ludicrous  in 
his  behaviour  which,  at  another  time,  would  not  have 
escaped  the  young  girl.  Now,  however,  she  was  too 
much  in  earnest  to  perceive  anything  except  the  danger 
of  her  position  and  the  necessity  for  remaining  firm  at 
any  cost.  She  did  not  understand  why  her  mother  was 
to  be  called,  but  she  felt  that  she  could  face  all  her 
family  if  necessary.  She  kept  her  eyes  upon  her  father 
and  was  hardly  conscious  that  a  servant  entered  the 
room.  Montevarchi  sent  a  message  requesting  the  prin 
cess  to  come  at  once.  Then  he  turned  again  towards 
Faustina. 

"You  can  hardly  suppose,"  he  observed,  "that  I  take 
seriously  what  you  have  just  said ;  but  you  are  evidently 
very  much  excited,  and  your  mother's  presence  will,  I 
trust,  have  a  soothing  effect.  You  must  be  aware  that  it 
is  very  wrong  to  utter  such  monstrous  untruths  —  even 
in  jest " 

"  I  am  in  earnest.  I  will  marry  Monsieur  Gouache  or 
I  will  marry  no  one." 

Montevarchi  really  believed  that  his  daughter's  mind 


296  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

was  deranged.  His  interview  with  Gouache  had  con 
vinced  him  that  Faustina  meant  what  she  said,  though 
he  affected  to  laugh  at  it,  but  he  was  wholly  unable  to 
account  for  her  conduct  on  any  theory  but  that  of 
insanity.  Being  at  his  wits'  end  he  had  sent  for  his 
wife,  and  while  waiting  for  her  he  did  not  quite  know 
what  to  do. 

"My  dear  child,  what  is  Monsieur  Gouache?  A  very 
estimable  young  man,  without  doubt,  but  not  such  a  one 
as  we  could  choose  for  your  husband. " 

"I  have  chosen  him,"  answered  Faustina.  "That  is 
enough." 

"  How  you  talk,  my  dear !  How  rashly  you  talk !  As 
though  choosing  a  husband  were  like  buying  a  new  hat ! 
And  you,  too,  whom  I  always  believed  to  be  the  most 
dutiful,  the  most  obedient  of  my  children!  But  your 
mother  and  I  will  reason  with  you,  we  will  endeavour  to 
put  better  thoughts  into  your  heart." 

Faustina  glanced  scornfully  at  her  father  and  turned 
away,  walking  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  window. 

"  It  is  of  no  use  to  waste  your  breath  on  me, "  she  said 
presently.  "I  will  marry  Gouache  or  nobody." 

"You  —  marry  Gouache?"  cried  the  princess,  who 
entered  at  that  moment,  and  heard  the  last  words.  Her 
voice  expressed  an  amazement  and  horror  fully  equal  to 
her  husband's. 

"  Have  you  come  to  join  the  fray,  mamma?  "  inquired 
Faustina,  in  English. 

"Pray  speak  in  a  language  I  can  understand,"  said 
Montevarchi  who,  in  a  whole  lifetime,  had  never  mas 
tered  a  word  of  his  wife's  native  tongue. 

"Oh,  Lotario!"  exclaimed  the  princess.  "What  has 
the  child  been  telling  you?" 

"  Things  that  would  make  you  tremble,  my  dear !  She 
refuses  to  marry  Frangipani " 

"  Kef  uses !  But,  Faustina,  you  do  not  know  what  you 
are  doing !  You  are  out  of  your  mind !  " 

"  And  she  talks  wildly  of  marrying  a  certain  French 
man,  a  Monsieur  Gouache,  I  believe  —  is  there  such  a 
man,  my  dear?  " 

"Of  course,  Lotario!  The  little  man  you  ran  over. 
How  forgetful  you  are !  " 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  297 

"  Yes,  yes,  of  course.     I  know.     But  you  must  reason 

with  her,  Guendalina " 

"It  seems  to  me,   Lotario,   that  you  should  do  that 


"  My  dear,  I  think  the  child  is  insane  upon  the  subject. 
Where  could  she  have  picked  up  such  an  idea?  Is  it  a 
mere  caprice,  a  mere  piece  of  impertinence,  invented  to 
disconcert  the  sober  senses  of  a  careful  father?  " 

"  Nonsense,  Lotario !  She  is  not  capable  of  that.  After 
all,  she  is  not  Flavia,  who  always  had  something  dread 
ful  quite  ready,  just  when  you  least  expected  it." 

"  I  almost  wish  she  were  Flavia !  "  exclaimed  Monte- 
varchi,  ruefully.  "  Flavia  has  done  very  well."  During 
all  this  time  Faustina  was  standing  with  her  back  towards 
the  window  and  her  hands  folded  before  her,  looking 
from  the  one  to  the  other  of  the  speakers  with  an  air  of 
bitter  contempt  which  was  fast  changing  to  uncontrol 
lable  anger.  Some  last  remaining  instinct  of  prudence 
kept  her  from  interrupting  the  conversation  by  a  fresh 
assertion  of  her  will,  and  she  waited  until  one  of  them 
chose  to  speak  to  her.  She  had  lost  her  head,  for  she 
would  otherwise  never  have  gone  so  far  as  to  mention 
Gouache's  name,  but,  as  with  all  very  spontaneous  na 
tures,  with  her  to  break  the  first  barrier  was  to  go  to  the 
extreme,  whatever  it  might  be.  Her  clear  brown  eyes 
were  very  bright,  and  there  was  something  luminous 
about  her  angelic  face  which  showed  that  her  whole 
being  was  under  the  influence  of  an  extraordinary  emo 
tion,  almost  amounting  to  exaltation.  It  was  impossible 
to  foresee  what  she  would  say  or  do. 

"  Your  father  almost  wishes  you  were  Flavia !  "  groaned 
the  princess,  shaking  her  head  and  looking  very  grave. 
Then  Faustina  laughed  scornfully  and  her  wrath  bubbled 
over. 

"  I  am  not  Flavia ! "  she  cried,  coming  forward  and 
facing  her  father  and  mother.  "  I  daresay  you  do  wish 
I  were.  Flavia  has  done  so  very  well.  Yes,  she  is 
Princess  Saracinesca  this  evening,  I  suppose.  Indeed 
she  has  done  well,  for  she  has  married  the  man  she  loves, 
as  much  as  she  is  capable  of  loving  anything.  And  that 
is  all  the  more  reason  why  I  should  do  the  same.  Be 
sides,  am  I  as  old  as  Flavia  that  you  should  be  in  such 


298  SANT'  ILARIO. 

a  hurry  to  marry  me?  Do  you  think  I  will  yield?  Do 
you  think  that  while  I  love  one  man,  I  will  be  so  base 
as  to  marry  another?  " 

"  I  have  explained  to  you  that  love " 

"Your  explanations  will  drive  me  mad!  You  may 
explain  anything  in  that  way  —  and  prove  that  Love 
itself  does  not  exist.  Do  you  think  your  saying  so 
makes  it  true?  There  is  more  truth  in  a  little  of  my 
love  than  in  all  your  whole  life !  " 

"  Faustina!" 

"What?  May  I  not  answer  you?  Must  I  believe  you 
infallible  when  you  use  arguments  that  would  not  satisfy 
a  child?  Is  my  whole  nature  a  shadow  because  yours 
cannot  understand  my  reality?  " 

"  If  you  are  going  to  make  this  a  question  of  meta 
physics  " 

"I  am  not,  I  do  not  know  what  metaphysic  means. 
But  I  will  repeat  before  my  mother  what  I  said  to  you 
alone.  I  will  not  marry  Frangipani,  and  you  cannot 
force  me  to  marry  him.  If  I  marry  any  one  I  will  have 
the  man  I  love." 

.  "But,  my  dearest  Faustina,"  cried  the  princess  in 
genuine  distress,  "this  is  a  mere  idea  —  a  sort  of  mad 
ness  that  has  seized  upon  you.  Consider  your  position, 
consider  what  you  owe  to  us,  consider " 

"Consider,  consider,  consider!  Do  you  suppose  that 
any  amount  of  consideration  would  change  me?" 

" Do  you  think  your  childish  anger  will  change  us?" 
inquired  Montevarchi,  blandly.  He  did  not  care  to 
lose  his  temper,  for  he  was  quite  indifferent  to  Faustina's 
real  inclinations,  if  she  would  only  consent  to  marry 
Frangipani. 

"  Childish ! "  cried  Faustina,  her  eyes  blazing  with 
anger.  "  Was  I  childish  when  I  followed  him  out  into 
the  midst  of  the  revolution  last  October,  when  I  was 
nearly  killed  at  the  Serristori,  when  I  thought  he  was 
dead  and  knelt  there  among  the  ruins  until  he  found  me 
and  brought  me  home?  Was  that  a  child's  love?" 

The  princess  turned  pale  and  grasped  her  husband's 
arm,  staring  at  Faustina  in  horror.  The  old  man  trem 
bled  and  for  a  few  moments  could  not  find  strength  to 
speak.  Nothing  that  Faustina  could  have  invented 


SANT'  ILARIO.  299 

could  have  produced  such  a  sudden  and  tremendous  effect 
as  this  revelation  of  what  had  happened  on  the  night  of 
the  insurrection,  coming  from  the  girl's  own  lips  with 
the  unmistakable  accent  of  truth.  The  mother's  instinct 
was  the  first  to  assert  itself.  With  a  quick  movement 
she  threw  her  arms  round  the  young  girl,  as  though  to 
protect  her  from  harm. 

"  It  is  not  true,  it  is  not  true, "  she  cried  in  an  agonised 
tone.  "  Faustina,  my  child  —  it  is  not  true !  " 

"It  is  quite  true,  mamma,"  answered  Faustina,  who 
enjoyed  an  odd  satisfaction  in  seeing  the  effect  of  her 
words,  which  can  only  be  explained  by  her  perfect  inno 
cence.  "Why  are  you  so  much  astonished?  I  loved 
him  —  I  thought  he  was  going  out  to  be  killed  —  I  would 
not  let  him  go  alone " 

"  Oh,  Faustina !  How  could  you  do  it !  "  moaned  the 
princess.  "  It  is  too  horrible  —  it  is  not  to  be  believed 


"I  loved  him,  I  love  him  still." 

Princess  Montevarchi  fell  into  a  chair  and  burst  into 
tears,  burying  her  face  in  her  hands  and  sobbing  aloud. 

"  If  you  are  going  to  cry,  Guendalina,  you  had  better 
go  away,"  said  her  husband,  who  was  now  as  angry  as 
his  mean  nature  would  permit  him  to  be.  She  was  so 
much  accustomed  to  obey  that  she  left  the  room,  crying 
as  she  went,  and  casting  back  a  most  sorrowful  look  at 
Faustina. 

Montevarchi  shut  the  door  and,  coming  back,  seized 
his  daughter's  arm  and  shook  it  violently. 

"  Fool ! "  he  cried  angrily,  unable  to  find  any  other 
word  to  express  his  rage. 

Faustina  said  nothing  but  tried  to  push  him  away,  her 
bright  eyes  gleaming  with  contempt.  Her  silence  exas 
perated  the  old  man  still  further.  Like  most  very 
cowardly  men  he  could  be  brutal  to  women  when  he  was 
angry.  It  seemed  to  him  that  the  girl,  by  her  folly, 
had  dashed  from  him  the  last  great  satisfaction  of  his 
life  at  the  very  moment  when  it  was  within  reach.  He 
could  have  forgiven  her  for  ruining  herself,  had  she  done 
so;  he  could  not  forgive  her  for  disappointing  his  ambi 
tion  ;  he  knew  that  one  word  of  the  story  she  had  told 
would  make  the  great  marriage  impossible,  and  he  knew 


300  SANT'  ILARIO. 

that  she  had  the  power  to  speak  that  word  when  she 
pleased  as  well  as  the  courage  to  do  so. 

"  Fool !  "  he  repeated,  and  before  she  could  draw  back, 
he  struck  her  across  the  mouth  with  the  back  of  his 
hand. 

A  few  drops  of  bright  red  blood  trickled  from  her 
delicate  lips.  With  an  instinctive  movement  she  pressed 
her  handkerchief  to  the  wound.  Montevarchi  snatched 
it  roughly  from  her  hand  and  threw  it  across  the  room. 
From  his  eyes  she  guessed  that  he  would  strike  her  again 
if  she  remained.  With  a  look  of  intense  hatred  she 
made  a  supreme  effort,  and  concentrating  the  whole 
strength  of  her  slender  frame  wrenched  herself  free. 

"  Coward ! "  she  cried,  as  he  reeled  backwards ;  then, 
before  he  could  recover  himself,  she  was  gone  and  he 
was  left  alone. 

He  was  terribly  angry,  and  at  the  same  time  his  ideas 
were  confused,  so  that  he  hardly  understood  anything 
but  the  main  point  of  her  story,  that  she  had  been  with 
Gouache  on  that  night  when  Corona  had  brought  her 
home.  He  began  to  reason  again.  Corona  knew  the 
truth,  of  course,  and  her  husband  knew  it  too.  Monte 
varchi  realised  that  he  had  already  taken  his  revenge  for 
their  complicity,  before  knowing  that  they  had  injured 
him.  His  overwrought  brain  was  scarcely  capable  of 
receiving  another  impression.  He  laughed  aloud  in  a 
way  that  was  almost  hysterical. 

"  All !  "  he  cried  in  sudden  exultation.  "  All  —  even 

to  their  name  —  but  the  other "  His  face  changed 

quickly  and  he  sank  into  his  chair  and  buried  his  face  in 
his  hands,  as  he  thought  of  all  he  had  lost  through 
Faustina's  folly.  And  yet,  the  harm  might  be  repaired 
—  no  one  knew  except 

He  looked  up  and  saw  that  Meschini  had  returned 
and  was  standing  before  him,  as  though  waiting  to  be 
addressed.  The  suddenness  of  the  librarian's  appear 
ance  made  the  prince  utter  an  exclamation  of  surprise. 

"Yes,  I  have  come  back,"  said  Meschini.  "The  mat 
ter  we  were  discussing  cannot  be  put  off,  and  I  have 
come  back  to  ask  you  to  be  good  enough  to  pay  the 
money." 

Montevarchi  was  nervous  and  had  lost  the  calm  tone 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  301 

of  superiority  he  had  maintained  before  his  interview 
with  Faustina.  The  idea  of  losing  Frangipani,  too, 
made  his  avarice  assert  itself  very  strongly. 

"  I  told  you, "  he  replied,  "  that  I  refused  altogether  to 
talk  with  you,  so  long  as  you  addressed  me  in  that  tone. 
I  repeat  it.  Leave  me,  and  when  you  have  recovered 
your  manners  I  will  give  you  something  for  yourself. 
You  will  get  nothing  so  long  as  you  demand  it  as  though 
it  were  a  right." 

"  I  will  not  leave  this  room  without  the  money, " 
answered  Meschini,  resolutely.  The  bell  was  close  to 
the  door.  The  librarian  placed  himself  between  the 
prince  and  both. 

"  Leave  the  room !  "  cried  Montevarchi,  trembling  with 
anger.  He  had  so  long  despised  Meschini,  that  the 
exhibition  of  obstinacy  on  the  part  of  the  latter  did  not 
frighten  him. 

The  librarian  stood  before  the  bell  and  the  latch  of  the 
door,  his  long  arms  hanging  down  by  his  sides,  his  face 
yellow,  his  eyes  red.  Any  one  might  have  seen  that  he 
was  growing  dangerous.  Instead  of  repeating  his  refu 
sal  to  go,  he  looked  steadily  at  his  employer-  and  a 
disagreeable  smile  played  upon  his  ugly  features.  Monte 
varchi  saw  it  and  his  fury  boiled  over.  He  laid  his 
hands  on  the  arms  of  his  chair  as  though  he  would  rise, 
and  in  that  moment  he  would  have  been  capable  of  strik 
ing  Meschini  as  he  had  struck  Faustina.  Meschini 
shuffled  forwards  and  held  up  his  hand. 

"Do  not  be  violent,"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice.  "I  am 
not  your  daughter,  you  know." 

Montevarchi's  jaw  dropped,  and  he  fell  back  into  his 
chair  again. 

"  You  listened  —  you  saw "  he  gasped. 

"Yes,  of  course.  Will  you  pay  me?  I  am  desperate, 
and  I  will  have  it.  You  and  your  miserable  secrets  are 
mine,  and  I  will  have  my  price.  I  only  want  the  sum. 
you  promised.  I  shall  be  rich  in  a  few  days,  for  I  have 
entered  into  an  affair  in  which  I  shall  get  millions,  as 
many  as  you  have  perhaps.  But  the  money  must  be 
paid  to-morrow  morning  or  I  am  ruined,  and  you  must 
give  it  to  me.  Do  you  hear?  Do  you  understand  that 
I  will  have  what  is  mine?  " 


302  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

At  this  incoherent  speech,  Montevarchi  recovered  some 
thing  of  his  former  nerve.  There  was  something  in 
Meschini's  language  that  sounded  like  argument,  and  to 
argue  was  to  temporise.  The  prince  changed  his  tone. 

"But,  my  dear  Meschini,  how  could  you  be  so  rash  as 
to  go  into  a  speculation  when  you  knew  that  the  case 
might  not  be  decided  for  another  week?  You  are  really 
the  most  rash  man  I  ever  knew.  I  cannot  undertake  to 
guarantee  your  speculations.  I  will  be  just.  I  have 
told  you  that  I  would  give  you  two  thousand " 

"  Twenty  thousand ! "     Meschini  came  a  little  nearer. 

"  Not  a  single  baiocco  if  you  are  exorbitant. " 

"Twenty  thousand  hard,  good  scudi  in  cash,  I  tell 
you.  No  more,  but  no  less  either."  The  librarian's 
hands  were  clenched,  and  he  breathed  hard,  while  his 
red  eyes  stared  in  a  way  that  began  to  frighten  Monte 
varchi. 

"  No,  no,  be  reasonable !  My  dear  Meschini,  pray  do 
not  behave  in  this  manner.  You  almost  make  me  believe 
that  you  are  threatening  me.  I  assure  you  that  I  desire 
to  do  what  is  just  • 


:  Give  me  the  money  at  once " 

"  But  I  have  not  so  much  —  murder ! !     Ah  —  gh  —  gh 


Arnoldo  Meschini's  long  arms  had  shot  out  and  his 
hands  had  seized  the  prince's  throat  in  a  grip  from 
which  there  was  no  escape.  There  lurked  a  surprising 
strength  in  the  librarian's  round  shoulders,  and  his 
energy  was  doubled  by  a  fit  of  anger  that  amounted  to 
insanity.  The  old  man  rocked  and  swayed  in  his  chair, 
and  grasped  at  the  green  table-cover,  but  Meschini  had 
got  behind  him  and  pressed  his  fingers  tighter  and 
tighter.  His  eye  rested  upon  Faustina's  handkerchief 
that  lay  on  the  floor  at  his  feet.  His  victim  was  almost 
at  the  last  gasp,  but  the  handkerchief  would  do  the  job 
better.  Meschini  kept  his  grip  with  one  hand  and  with 
the  other  snatched  up  the  bit  of  linen.  He  drew  it  tight 
round  the  neck  and  wrenched  at  the  knot  with  his  yellow 
teeth.  There  was  a  convulsive  struggle,  followed  by  a 
long  interval  of  quiet.  Then  another  movement,  less 
violent  this  time,  another  and  another,  and  then  Mes 
chini  felt  the  body  collapse  in  his  grasp.  It  was  over. 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  303 

Montevarclii  was  dead.  Meschini  drew  back  against  the 
bookcases,  trembling  in  every  joint.  He  scarcely  saw 
the  objects  in  the  room,  for  his  head  swam  and  his  senses 
failed  him,  from  horror  and  from  the  tremendous  phys 
ical  effort  he  had  made.  Then  in  an  instant  he  realised 
what  he  had  done,  and  the  consequences  of  the  deed 
suggested  themselves. 

He  had  not  meant  to  kill  the  prince.  So  long  as  he 
had  kept  some  control  of  his  actions  he  had  not  even 
meant  to  lay  violent  hands  upon  him.  But  he  had  the 
nature  of  a  criminal,  by  turns  profoundly  cunning  and 
foolishly  rash.  A  fatal  influence  had  pushed  him  onward 
so  soon  as  he  had  raised  his  arm,  and  before  he  was 
thoroughly  conscious  of  his  actions  the  deed  was  done. 
Then  came  the  fear  of  consequences,  then  again  the 
diabolical  reasoning  which  intuitively  foresees  the  im 
mediate  results  of  murder,  and  provides  against  them 
at  once. 

"Nobody  knows  that  I  have  been  here.  Nothing  is 
missing.  No  one  knows  about  the  forgery.  No  one 
will  suspect  me.  There  is  no  one  in  the  library  nor  in 
the  corridor.  The  handkerchief  is  not  mine.  If  it  was 
not  his  own  it  was  Donna  Faustina's.  No  one  will  sus 
pect  her.  It  will  remain  a  mystery." 

Meschini  went  towards  the  door  through  which  he  had 
entered  and  opened  it.  He  looked  back  and  held  his 
breath.  The  prince's  head  had  fallen  forward  upon  his 
hands  as  they  lay  on  the  table,  and  the  attitude  was  that 
of  a  man  overcome  by  despair,  but  not  that  of  a  dead 
body.  The  librarian  glanced  round  the  room.  There 
was  no  trace  of  a  struggle.  The  position  of  the  furni 
ture  had  not  been  changed,  nor  had  anything  fallen  on 
the  floor.  Meschini  went  out  and  softly  closed  the  door 
behind  him,  leaving  the  dead  man  alone. 

The  quiet  afternoon  sun  fell  upon  the  houses  on  the 
opposite  side  of  the  street,  and  cast  a  melancholy  reflec 
tion  into  the  dismal  chamber  where  Prince  Montevarchi 
had  passed  so  many  hours  of  his  life,  and  in  which  that 
life  had  been  cut  short  so  suddenly.  On  the  table  before 
his  dead  hands  lay  the  copy  of  the  verdict,  the  testimony 
of  his  last  misdeed,  of  the  crime  for  which  he  had  paid 
the  forfeit  upon  the  very  day  it  was  due.  It  lay  there 


304  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

like  the  superscription  upon  a  malefactor's  gallows  in 
ancient  times,  the  advertisement  of  the  reason  of  his 
death  to  all  who  chose  to  inquire.  Not  a  sound  was 
heard  save  the  noise  that  rose  faintly  and  at  intervals 
from  the  narrow  street  below,  the  cry  of  a  hawker,  the 
song  of  a  street-boy,  the  bark  of  a  dog.  To-morrow  the 
poor  body  would  be  mounted  upon  a  magnificent  cata 
falque,  surrounded  by  the  pomp  of  a  princely  mourning, 
illuminated  by  hundreds  of  funeral  torches,  an  object  of 
aversion,  of  curiosity,  even  of  jest,  perhaps,  among  those 
who  bore  the  prince  a  grudge.  Many  of  those  who  had 
known  him  would  come  and  look  on  his  dead  face,  and 
some  would  say  that  he  was  changed  and  others  that  he 
was  not.  His  wife  and  his  children  would,  in  a  few 
hours,  be  all  dressed  in  black,  moving  silently  and  mourn 
fully  and  occasionally  showing  a  little  feeling,  though  not 
more  than  would  be  decent.  There  would  be  masses 
sung,  and  prayers  said,  and  his  native  city  would  hear 
the  tolling  of  the  heavy  bells  for  one  of  her  greatest 
personages.  All  this  would  be  done,  and  more  also, 
until  the  dead  prince  should  be  laid  to  rest  beneath  the 
marble  floor  of  the  chapel  where  his  ancestors  lay  side 
by  side. 

But  to-day  he  sat  in  state  in  his  shabby  chair,  his  head 
lying  upon  that  table  over  which  he  had  plotted  and 
schemed  for  so  many  years,  his  white  fingers  almost 
touching  the  bit  of  paper  whereon  was  written  the  ruin 
of  the  Saracinesca. 

And  upstairs  the  man  who  had  killed  him  shuffled 
about  the  library,  an  anxious  expression  on  his  yellow 
face,  glancing  from  time  to  time  at  his  hands  as  he  took 
down  one  heavy  volume  after  another,  practising  in 
solitude  the  habit  of  seeming  occupied,  in  order  that  he 
might  not  be  taken  unawares  when  an  under-servant 
should  be  sent  to  tell  the  insignificant  librarian  of  what 
had  happened  that  day  in  Casa  Montevarchi. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  305 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

Giovanni  came  home  late  in  the  afternoon  and  found 
Corona  sitting  by  the  fire  in  her  boudoir.  She  had  known 
that  he  would  return  before  long,  but  had  not  antici 
pated  his  coming  with  any  pleasure.  When  he  entered 
the  room  she  looked  up  quietly,  without  a  smile,  to  assure 
herself  that  it  was  he  and  no  one  else.  She  said  noth 
ing,  and  he  sat  down  upon  the  other  side  of  the  fireplace. 
There  was  an  air  of  embarrassment  about  their  meetings, 
until  one  or  the  other  had  made  some  remark  which  led 
to  a  commonplace  conversation.  On  the  present  occasion 
neither  seemed  inclined  to  be  the  first  speaker  and  for 
some  minutes  they  sat  opposite  to  each  other  in  silence. 
Giovanni  glanced  at  his  wife  from  time  to  time,  and  once 
she  turned  her  head  and  met  his  eyes.  Her  expression 
was  cold  and  grave  as  though  she  wished  him  to  under 
stand  that  she  had  nothing  to  say.  He  thought  she  had 
never  been  so  beautiful  before.  The  firelight,  striking 
her  face  at  an  upward  angle,  brought  out  clearly  the 
noble  symmetry  of  her  features,  the  level  brow,  the 
wide,  delicate  nostrils,  the  even  curve  of  her  lips, 
the  splendid  breadth  of  her  smooth  forehead,  shaded  by 
her  heavy  black  hair.  She  seemed  to  feel  cold,  for  she 
sat  near  the  flames,  resting  one  foot  upon  the  fender,  in 
an  attitude  that  threw  into  relief  the  perfect  curves  of 
her  figure,  as  she  bent  slightly  forward,  spreading  her 
hands  occasionally  to  the  blaze. 

"Corona "  Giovanni  stopped  suddenly  after  pro 
nouncing  her  name,  as  though  he  had  changed  his  mind 
while  in  the  act  of  speaking. 

"What  is  it?"  she  asked  indifferently  enough. 

"Would  you  like  to  go  away?  I  have  been  wondering 
whether  it  would  not  be  better  than  staying  here." 

She  looked  up  in  some  surprise.  She  had  thought  of 
travelling  more  than  once  of  late,  but  it  seemed  to  her 
that  to  make  a  journey  together  would  be  only  to  increase 
the  difficulties  of  the  situation.  There  would  be  of 
necessity  more  intimacy,  more  daily  converse  than  the 

v 


306  SANT'  ILARIO. 

life  in  Borne  forced  upon  her.  She  shrank  from  the  idea 
for  the  very  reason  which  made  it  attractive  to  her  hus 
band. 

"No,"  she  answered.  "Why  should  we  travel?  Be 
sides,  with  a  -child  so  young " 

"We  might  leave  Orsino  at  home,"  suggested  Gio 
vanni.  He  was  not  prepared  for  the  look  she  gave  him 
as  she  replied. 

"  I  will  certainly  not  consent  to  that. " 

"Would  you  be  willing  to  take  him  with  you,  and 
leave  me  here?  You  could  easily  find  a  friend  to  go 
with  you  —  even  my  father.  He  would  enjoy  it  im 
mensely." 

There  was  the  shortest  possible  pause  before  she 
answered  him  this  time.  It  did  not  escape  him,  for  he 
expected  it. 

"  No.  I  will  not  do  that,  either.  I  do  not  care  to  go 
away.  Why  should  I,  and  at  such  a  time?" 

"  I  think  I  will  go  alone,  in  that  case, "  said  Giovanni 
quietly,  but  watching  her  face.  She  made  no  reply,  but 
looked  at  him  curiously  as  though  she  suspected  him  of 
laying  a  trap  for  her. 

"You  say  nothing.     Is  silence  consent?" 

"I  think  it  would  be  very  unwise." 

"You  do  not  answer  me.  Be  frank,  Corona.  Would 
you  not  be  glad  to  be  left  alone  for  a  time?  " 

"Why  do  you  insist?"  she  asked  with  a  little  impa 
tience.  "  Are  you  trying  to  make  me  say  something  that 
I  shall  regret?" 

"  Would  you  regret  it,  if  it  were  said?  Why  not  be 
honest?  It  would  be  an  immense  relief  to  you  if  I  went 
away.  I  could  find  an  excellent  excuse  and  nobody 
would  guess  that  there  was  anything  wrong." 

"  For  that  matter  —  there  is  nothing  wrong.  Of  course 
no  one  would  say  anything." 

"  I  know  you  will  think  that  I  have  no  tact, "  Giovanni 
observed  with  considerable  justice. 

Corona  could  not  repress  a  smile  at  the  remark,  which 
expressed  most  exactly  what  she  herself  was  thinking. 

"  Frankly  —  I  think  it  would  be  better  to  leave  things 
alone.  Do  you  not  think  so,  too?" 

"  How   coolly  you   say   that ! "    exclaimed   Giovanni. 


SANT*   ILAEIO.  307 

"It  is  so  easy  for  you  —  so  hard  for  me.  I  would  do 
anything  you  asked,  and  you  will  not  ask  anything, 
because  you  would  make  any  sacrifice  rather  than  accept 
one  from  me.  Did  you  ever  really  love  me,  Corona?  Is 
it  possible  that  love  can  be  killed  in  a  day,  by  a  word? 
I  wonder  whether  there  is  any  woman  alive  as  cold  as 
you  are !  Is  it  anything  to  you  that  I  should  suffer  as  I 
am  suffering,  every  day?" 

"  You  cannot  understand " 

"No  —  that  is  true.  I  cannot  understand.  I  was 
base,  cowardly,  cruel  —  I  make  no  defence.  But  if  I 
was  all  that,  and  more  too,  it  was  because  I  loved  you, 
because  the  least  suspicion  drove  me  mad,  because  I 
could  not  reason,  loving  you  as  I  did,  any  more  than  I 
can  reason  now.  Oh,  I  love  you  too  much,  too  wholly, 
too  foolishly !  I  will  try  and  change  and  be  another 
man  —  so  that  I  may  at  least  look  at  you  without  going 
mad ! " 

He  rose  to  his  feet  and  went  towards  the  door.  But 
Corona  called  him  back.  The  bitterness  of  his  words 
and  the  tone  in  which  they  were  spoken  hurt  her,  and 
made  her  realise  for  a  moment  what  he  was  suffering. 

"Giovanni  — dear  —  do  not  leave  me  so  —  I  am  un 
happy,  too." 

"  Are  you?  "  He  had  come  to  her  side  and  stood  look 
ing  down  into  her  eyes. 

"Wretchedly  unhappy."  She  turned  her  face  away 
again.  She  could  not  help  it. 

"  You  are  unhappy,  and  yet  I  can  do  nothing.  Why 
do  you  call  me  back?" 

"  If  I  only  could,  if  I  only  could ! "  she  repeated  in  a 
low  voice. 

There  was  silence  for  a  few  seconds,  during  which 
Giovanni  could  hear  his  heart  beat  loudly  and  irregu 
larly. 

"  If  I  could  but  move  you  a  little ! "  he  said  at  last, 
almost  inaudibly.  "  If  I  could  do  anything,  suffer  any 
thing  for  you " 

She  shook  her  head  sorrowfully  and  then,  as  though 
afraid  that  she  had  given  him  pain,  she  took  his  hand 
and  pressed  it  affectionately  —  affectionately,  not  lov 
ingly.  It  was  as  cold  as  ice.  He  sighed  and  once  more 


308  SANT'  ILARIO. 

turned  away.     Just  then  the  door  opened,  and  old  Pas- 
quale  appeared,  his  face  pale  with  fright. 

"Eccellenza,  a  note,  and  the  man  says  that  Prince 
Montevarchi  has  just  been  murdered,  and  that  the  note 
is  from  Donna  Faustina,  and  the  police  are  in  the  Palazzo 

Montevarchi,  and  that  the  poor  princess  is  dying,  and 
?> 

Corona  had  risen  quickly  with  a  cry  of  astonishment. 
Giovanni  had  taken  the  letter  and  stood  staring  at  the 
servant  as  though  he  believed  that  the  man  was  mad. 
Then  he  glanced  at  the  address  and  saw  that  it  was  for 
his  wife. 

"  Faustina  is  accused  of  the  murder ! "  she  exclaimed. 
"I  must  go  to  her  at  once.  The  carriage,  Pasquale, 
instantly ! " 

"  Faustina  Montevarchi  —  killed  her  own  father !  "  cried 
Giovanni  in  the  utmost  astonishment. 

Corona  thrust  the  note  into  his  hands.  It  only  con 
tained  a  few  words  scrawled  in  an  irregular  hand  as 
though  written  in  great  emotion. 

"  Of  course  it  is  some  horrible  mistake, "  said  Corona, 
"but  I  must  go  at  once." 

"I  will  go  with  you.  I  may  be  able  to  give  some 
help." 

Five  minutes  later,  they  were  descending  the  stairs. 
The  carriage  was  not  ready,  and  leaving  orders  for  it  to 
follow  them  they  went  out  into  the  street  and  took  a 
passing  cab.  Under  the  influence  of  the  excitement 
they  acted  together  instinctively.  During  the  short 
drive  they  exchanged  but  few  words,  and  those  only 
expressive  of  amazement  at  the  catastrophe.  At  the 
Palazzo  Montevarchi  everything  was  already  in  confu 
sion,  the  doors  wide  open,  the  servants  hurrying  aim 
lessly  hither  and  thither  with  frightened  faces.  They 
had  just  been  released  from  the  preliminary  examination 
held  by  the  prefect  of  police.  A  party  of  gendarmes 
stood  together  in  the  antechamber  talking,  while  one 
of  their  number  mounted  guard  at  the  door  with  a 
drawn  sabre,  allowing  no  one  to  leave  the  house.  A 
terrified  footman  led  Giovanni  and  Corona  to  the  great 
drawing-room. 

The  vast  chamber  was  lighted  by  a  single  lamp  which 


SANT'  ILARIO.  309 

stood  upon  a  yellow  marble  pier-table,  and  cast  dim 
shadows  on  the  tapestry  of  the  walls.  The  old-fash 
ioned  furniture  was  ranged  stiffly  around  the  room  as 
usual;  the  air  was  damp  and  cold,  not  being  warmed 
even  by  the  traditional  copper  brazier.  The  voices  of 
the  group  of  persons  collected  within  the  circle  of  the 
light  sounded  hollow,  and  echoed  strangely  in  the  huge 
emptiness.  Dominant  above  the  rest  were  heard  the 
hard  tones  of  the  prefect  of  police. 

"I  can  assure  you,"  he  was  saying,  "that  I  feel  the 
greatest  regret  in  being  obliged  to  assert  my  decision." 

Giovanni  and  Corona  came  forward,  and  the  rest  made 
way  for  them.  The  prefect  stood  with  his  back  to  the 
light  and  to  the  table,  like  a  man  who  is  at  bay.  He 
was  of  middle  height,  very  dark,  and  inclining  to  stout 
ness.  His  aquiline  features  and  his  eyes,  round  in 
shape,  but  half  veiled  by  heavy  lids,  gave  him  some 
thing  of  the  appearance  of  an  owl.  When  he  spoke, 
his  voice  was  harsh  and  mechanical,  and  he  always 
seemed  to  be  looking  just  over  the  head  of  the  person  he 
addressed.  He  made  no  gestures  and  held  himself  very 
straight. 

Opposite  him  stood  Faustina  Montevarchi,  her  face 
luminously  pale,  her  eyes  almost  wild  in  their  fixed 
expression.  She  held  her  hands  clasped  before  her,  and 
her  fingers  worked  nervously.  Around  her  stood  her 
brothers  and  their  wives,  apparently  speechless  with 
horror,  crowding  together  like  frightened  sheep  before 
the  officer  of  the  law.  Neither  her  mother,  nor  Flavia, 
nor  San  Giacinto  accompanied  the  rest.  It  would  be 
impossible  to  imagine  a  number  of  persons  more  dumb 
and  helpless  with  fear. 

"  Oh  Corona,  save  me  !  "  cried  Faustina,  throwing  her 
self  into  her  friend's  arms  as  soon  as  she  saw  her  face. 

"  Will  you  be  good  enough  to  explain  what  has 
occurred?  "  said  Giovanni,  confronting  the  prefect  sternly. 
"Do  you  mean  to  tell  me  that  you  have  accused  this 
innocent  child  of  murdering  her  father?  You  are  mad, 
sir ! " 

"  Pardon  me,  Signor  Principe,  I  am  not  mad,  and  no 
one  can  regret  more  than  I  what  has  occurred  here," 
replied  the  other  in  loud,  metallic  tones.  "  I  will  give 


310  SANT'  ILARIO. 

you  the  facts  in  two  minutes.  Prince  Montevarchi  was 
found  dead  an  hour  ago.  He  had  been  dead  some  time. 
He  had  been  strangled  by  means  of  this  pocket  handker 
chief —  observe  the  stains  of  blood  —  which  I  hold  as 
part  of  the  evidence.  The  Signora  Donna  Faustina  is 
admitted  to  be  the  last  person  who  saw  the  prince  alive. 
She  admits,  furthermore,  that  a  violent  scene  occurred 
between  her  and  her  father  this  afternoon,  in  the  course 
of  which  his  Excellency  struck  his  daughter,  doubtless 
in  the  way  of  paternal  correction  —  observe  the  bruise 
upon  the  young  lady's  mouth.  There  is  also  another 
upon  her  arm.  It  is  clear  that,  being  young  and  vigor 
ous  and  remarkably  well  grown,  she  opposed  violence  to 
violence.  She  went  behind  him,  for  the  prince  was 
found  dead  in  his  chair,  leaning  forward  upon  the  table, 
and  she  succeeded  in  knotting  the  handkerchief  so  firmly 
as  to  produce  asphyxia  siiperinduced  by  strangulation 
without  suspension.  All  this  is  very  clear.  I  have 
examined  every  member  of  the  household,  and  have 
reluctantly  arrived  at  the  conclusion,  most  shocking  no 
doubt  to  these  pacifically  disposed  persons,  that  this 
young  lady  allowed  herself  to  be  so  far  carried  away  by 
her  feelings  as  to  take  the  life  of  her  parent.  Upon  this 
charge  I  have  no  course  but  to  arrest  her  person,  the  case 
being  very  clear,  and  to  convey  her  to  a  safe  place." 

Giovanni  could  scarcely  contain  his  wrath  while  the 
prefect  made  this  long  speech,  but  he  was  resolved  to 
listen  to  the  account  given  without  interrupting  it. 
When  the  man  had  finished,  however,  his  anger  burst 
out. 

"And  do  you  take  nothing  into  consideration,"  he 
cried,  "  but  the  fact  that  the  prince  was  strangled  with 
that  handkerchief,  and  that  there  had  been  some  disa 
greement  between  him  and  his  daughter  in  the  course  of 
the  day?  Do  you  mean  to  say,  that  you,  who  ought  to 
be  a  man  of  sense,  believe  it  possible  that  this  delicate 
child  could  take  a  hale  old  gentleman  by  the  throat  and 
throttle  him  to  death?  It  is  madness,  I  say!  It  is 
absurd ! " 

"It  is  not  absurd,"  answered  the  prefect,  whose 
mechanical  tone  never  changed  throughout  the  conversa 
tion.  "  There  is  no  other  explanation  for  the  facts,  and 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  311 

the  facts  are  undeniable.  Would  you  like  to  see  the 
body?" 

"  There  are  a  thousand  explanations  each  ten  thousand 
times  as  reasonable  as  the  one  you  offer.  He  was  prob 
ably  murdered  by  a  servant  out  of  spite,  or  for  the  sake 
of  robbing  him.  You  are  so  sure  of  your  idea  that  I 
daresay  you  did  not  think  of  searching  the  room  to  see 
whether  anything  had  been  taken  or  not." 

"  You  are  under  a  delusion.  Everything  has  been 
searched.  Moreover,  it  is  quite  well  known  that  his 
deceased  Excellency  never  kept  money  in  the  house. 
There  was  consequently  nothing  to  take." 

"  Then  it  was  done  out  of  spite,  by  a  servant,  unless 
some  one  got  in  through  the  window." 

"No  one  could  get  in  through  the  window.  It  was 
done  out  of  anger  by  this  young  lady." 

"  I  tell  you  it  was  not ! "  cried  Giovanni,  growing 
furious  at  the  man's  obstinacy. 

"  There  is  reason  to  believe  that  it  was, "  returned  the 
prefect,  perfectly  unmoved. 

Giovanni  stamped  his  foot  upon  the  floor  angrily  and 
turned  away.  Faustina  had  drawn  back  a  little  and  was 
leaning  upon  Corona's  arm  for  support,  while  the  latter 
spoke  words  of  comfort  in  her  ear,  such  words  as  she 
could  find  at  such  a  time.  A  timid  murmur  of  approval 
arose  from  the  others  every  time  Giovanni  spoke,  but 
none  of  them  ventured  to  say  anything  distinctly.  Gio 
vanni  was  disgusted  with  them  all  and  turned  to  the 
young  girl  herself. 

"Donna  Faustina,  will  you  tell  me  what  you  know? " 

She  had  seemed  exhausted  by  the  struggle  she  had 
already  endured,  but  at  Sant'  Ilario's  question,  she 
straightened  herself  and  came  forward  again  one  or  two 
steps.  Giovanni  thought  her  eyes  very  strange,  but  she 
spoke  collectedly  and  clearly. 

"  I  can  only  say  what  I  have  said  before,"  she  answered. 
"  My  father  sent  for  me  this  afternoon,  I  should  think 
about  three  o'clock.  He  spoke  of  my  marriage,  which 
he  has  been  contemplating  some  time.  I  answered  that 

I  would  not  marry  Prince  Frangipani's  son,  because " 

she  hesitated. 

"Because?" 


312  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

"Because  I  love  another  man,"  she  continued  almost 
defiantly.  "  A  man  who  is  not  a  prince  but  an  artist." 

A  murmur  of  horror  ran  round  the  little  group  of  the 
girl's  relations.  She  glanced  at  them  scornfully. 

"I  am  not  ashamed  of  it,"  she  said.  "But  I  would  not 
tell  you  unless  it  were  necessary  —  to  make  you  under 
stand  how  angry  he  was.  I  forgot  —  he  had  called  my 
mother,  and  she  was  there.  He  sent  her  away.  Then 
he  came  back  and  struck  me !  I  put  my  handkerchief  to 
my  mouth  because  it  bled.  He  snatched  it  away  and 
threw  it  on  the  floor.  He  took  me  by  the  arm  —  he  was 
standing  —  I  wrenched  myself  out  of  his  hands  and  ran 
away,  because  I  was  afraid  of  him.  I  did  not  see  him 
again.  Beyond  this  I  know  nothing." 

Giovanni  was  struck  by  the  concise  way  in  which 
Faustina  told  her  story.  It  was  true  that  she  had  told 
it  for  the  second  time,  but,  while  believing  entirely  in 
her  innocence,  he  saw  that  her  manner  might  easily 
have  made  a  bad  impression  upon  the  prefect.  "When  she 
had  done,  she  stood  still  a  moment.  Then  her  hands 
dropped  by  her  sides  and  she  shrank  back  again  to 
Corona  who  put  her  arm  round  the  girl's  waist  and  sup 
ported  her. 

"I  must  say  that  my  sister's  tale  seems  clearly  true," 
said  the  feeble  voice  of  Ascanio  Bellegra.  His  thin, 
fair  beard  seemed  to  tremble  as  he  moved  his  lips. 

"  Seems !  "  cried  Corona  indignantly.  "  It  is  true ! 
How  can  any  one  be  so  mad  as  to  doubt  it?  " 

"  I  do  not  deny  its  truth, "  said  the  prefect,  speaking 
in  the  air.  "  I  only  say  that  the  appearances  are  such  as 
to  oblige  me  to  take  steps " 

"  If  you  lay  a  hand  on  her "  began  Giovanni. 

"Do  not  threaten  me,"  interrupted  the  other  calmly. 
"My  men  are  outside." 

Giovanni  had  advanced  towards  him  with  a  menacing 
gesture.  Immediately  Faustina's  sisters-in-law  began  to 
whimper  and  cry  with  fright,  while  her  brothers  made 
undecided  movements  as  though  wishing  to  part  the  two 
angry  men,  but  afraid  to  come  within  arm's  length  of 
either. 

"Giovanni!"  exclaimed  Corona.  "Do  not  be  violent 
—  it  is  of  no  use.  Hear  me, "  she  added,  turning  towards 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  313 

the  prefect,  and  at  the  same  time  making  a  gesture  that 
seemed  to  shield  Faustina. 

"I  am  at  your  service,  Signora  Principessa,  but  my 
time  is  valuable." 

"  Hear  me  —  I  will  not  detain  you  long.  You  are  doing 
a  very  rash  and  dangerous  thing  in  trying  to  arrest 
Donna  Faustina,  a  thing  you  may  repent  of.  You  are  no 
doubt  acting  as  you  believe  right,  but  your  heart  must 
tell  you  that  you  are  wrong.  Look  at  her  face.  She  is 
a  delicate  child.  Has  she  the  features  of  a  murderess? 
She  is  brave  against  you,  because  you  represent  a  horri 
ble  idea  against  which  her  whole  nature  revolts,  but  can 
you  believe  that  she  has  the  courage  to  do  such  a  deed, 
the  bad  heart  to  will  it,  or  the  power  to  carry  it  out? 
Think  of  what  took  place.  Her  father  sent  for  her  sud 
denly.  He  insisted  roughly  on  a  marriage  she  detests. 
What  woman  would  not  put  out  her  whole  strength  to 
resist  such  tyranny?  What  woman  would  submit  quietly 
to  be  matched  with  a  man  she  loathes?  She  said,  'I  will 
not.'  She  even  told  her  father  and  mother,  together, 
that  she  loved  another  man.  Her  mother  left  the  room, 
her  mother,  the  only  one  from  whom  she  might  have  ex 
pected  support.  She  was  alone  with  her  father,  and  he 
was  angry.  Was  he  an  enfeebled  invalid,  confined  to  his 
chair,  broken  with  years,  incapable  of  an  effort?  Ask 
his  children.  We  all  knew  him  well.  He  was  not  very 
old,  he  was  tall,  erect,  even  strong  for  his  years.  He 
was  angry,  beside  himself  with  disappointment.  He  rises 
from  his  chair,  he  seizes  her  by  the  arm,  he  strikes  her 
in  the  face  with  his  other  hand.  You  say  that  he  struck 
her  when  he  was  seated.  It  is  impossible  —  could  she 
not  have  drawn  back,  avoiding  the  blow?  Would  the 
blow  itself  have  had  such  force?  No.  He  was  on  his 
feet,  a  tall,  angry  man,  holding  her  by  one  arm.  Is  it 
conceivable  that  she,  a  frail  child,  could  have  had  the 
physical  strength  to  force  him  back  to  his  seat,  to  hold 
him  there  while  she  tied  that  handkerchief  round  his 
neck,  to  resist  and  suppress  his  struggles  until  he  was 
dead?  Do  you  think  such  a  man  would  die  easily?  Do 
you  think  that  to  send  him  out  of  the  world  it  would  be 
enough  to  put  your  fingers  to  his  throat  —  such  little 
fingers  as  these?"  she  held  up  Faustina's  passive  hand 


314  SANT'  ILAHIO. 

iu  her  own,  before  their  eyes.  "A  man  does  not  die  in 
an  instant  by  strangling.  He  struggles,  he  strikes  des 
perate  blows,  he  turns  to  the  right  and  the  left,  twisting 
himself  with  all  his  might.  Could  this  child  have  held 
him?  I  ask  it  of  your  common  sense.  I  ask  of  your 
heart  whether  a  creature  that  God  has  made  so  fair,  so 
beautiful,  so  innocent,  could  do  such  terrible  work.  The 
woman  who  could  do  such  things  would  bear  the  sign  of 
her  badness  in  her  face,  and  the  fear  of  what  she  had 
done  in  her  soul.  She  would  tremble,  she  would  have 
tried  to  escape,  she  would  hesitate  in  her  story,  she 
would  contradict  herself,  break  down,  attempt  to  shed 
false  tears,  act  as  only  a  woman  who  has  committed  a 
first  great  crime  could  act.  And  this  child  stands  here, 
submitted  to  this  fearful  ordeal,  defended  by  none,  but 
defending  herself  with  the  whole  innocence  of  her  nature, 
the  glory  of  truth  in  her  eyes,  the  self-conscious  courage 
of  a  stainless  life  in  her  heart.  Is  this  assumed?  Is  this 
put  on?  You  have  seen  murderers  —  it  is  your  office  to 
see  them  —  did  you  ever  see  one  like  her?  Do  you  not 
know  the  outward  tokens  of  guilt  when  they  are  before 
your  eyes?  You  would  do  a  thing  that  is  monstrous  in 
absurdity,  monstrous  in  cruelty,  revolting  to  reason,  out 
rageous  to  every  instinct  of  human  nature.  Search, 
inquire,  ask  questions,  arrest  whom  you  will,  but  leave 
this  child  in  peace;  this  child,  with  her  angel  face,  her 
fearless  eyes,  her  guiltless  heart!  " 

Encouraged  by  Corona's  determined  manner  as  well  as 
by  the  good  sense  of  her  arguments,  the  timid  flock  of 
relations  expressed  their  approval  audibly.  Giovanni 
looked  at  his  wife  in  some  surprise;  for  he  had  never 
heard  her  make  so  long  a  speech  before,  and  had  not  sus 
pected  her  of  the  ability  she  displayed.  He  was  proud 
of  her  in  that  moment  and  moved  nearer  to  her,  as  though 
ready  to  support  every  word  she  had  uttered.  The  prefect 
alone  stood  unmoved  by  her  eloquence.  He  was  accus 
tomed  in  his  profession  to  hear  far  more  passionate  ap 
peals  to  his  sensibilities,  and  he  was  moreover  a  man 
who,  being  obliged  generally  to  act  quickly,  had  acquired 
the  habit  of  acting  upon  the  first  impulse  of  his  intelli 
gence.  For  a  moment  his  heavy  lids  were  raised  a  little, 
either  in  astonishment  or  in  admiration,  but  no  other 
feature  of  his  face  betrayed  that  he  was  touched, 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  315 

"Signora  Principessa,"  lie  said  in  his  usual  tone, 
"those  are  arguments  which  may  be  used  with  propriety 
by  the  persons  who  will  defend  the  accused  before  the 
tribunals " 

Giovanni  laughed  in  his  face. 

"  Do  you  suppose,  seriously,  that  Donna  Faustina  will 
ever  be  brought  to  trial?"  he  asked  scornfully.  The 
prefect  kept  his  temper  wonderfully  well. 

"  It  is  my  business  to  suppose  so, "  he  answered.  "  I 
am  not  the  law,  nor  his  Eminence  either,  and  it  is  not 
for  me  to  weigh  the  defence  or  to  listen  to  appeals  for 
mercy.  I  act  upon  my  own  responsibility,  and  it  is  for 
me  to  judge  whether  the  facts  are  likely  to  support  me. 
My  reputation  depends  upon  my  judgment  and  upon 
nothing  else.  The  fate  of  the  accused  depends  upon  a 
number  of  considerations  with  which  I  have  nothing  to 
do.  I  must  tell  you  plainly  that  this  interview  must 
come  to  an  end.  I  am  very  patient.  I  wish  to  overlook 
nothing.  Arguments  are  of  no  avail.  If  there  is  any 
better  evidence  to  offer  against  any  one  else  in  this 
house,  I  am  here  to  take  note  of  it." 

He  looked  coolly  round  the  circle  of  listeners.  Faus 
tina's  relations  shrank  back  a  little  under  his  glance. 

"  Kot  being  able  to  find  any  person  here  who  appears 
more  likely  to  be  guilty,  and  having  found  enough  to 
justify  me  in  my  course,  I  intend  to  remove  this  yoting 
lady  at  once  to  the  Termini." 

"  You  shall  not ! "  said  Giovanni,  placing  himself  in 
front  of  him  in  a  threatening  attitude.  "If  you  attempt 
anything  of  the  sort,  I  will  have  you  in  prison  yourself 
before  morning." 

"  You  do  not  know  what  you  are  saying,  Signer  Prin 
cipe.  You  cannot  oppose  me.  I  have  an  armed  force 
here  to  obey  my  orders,  and  if  you  attempt  forcible 
opposition  I  shall  be  obliged  to  take  you  also,  very  much 
against  my  will.  Donna  Faustina  Montevarchi,  I  have 
the  honour  to  arrest  you.  I  trust  you  will  make  no  resist 
ance." 

The  semi-comic  phrase  fell  from  his  lips  in  the  profes 
sional  tone;  in  speaking  of  the  arrest  as  an  honour  to 
himself,  he  was  making  an  attempt  to  be  civil  according 
to  his  lights.  He  made  a  step  forward  in  the  direction 


316  SANT'  ILARIO. 

of  the  young  girl,  but  Giovanni  seized  him  firmly  by  the 
wrist.  He  made  no  effort  to  release  himself,  however, 
but  stood  still. 

"  Signor  Principe,  be  good  enough  to  let  go  of  my  hand. " 

"You  shall  not  touch  her,"  answered  Giovanni,  not 
relinquishing  his  grasp.  He  was  beginning  to  be  dan 
gerous. 

"  Signor  Principe,  release  me  at  once ! "  said  the  pre 
fect  in  a  commanding  tone.  "Very  well,  I  will  call  my 
men,"  he  added,  producing  a  small  silver  whistle  with 
his  free  hand  and  putting  it  to  his  lips.  "  If  I  call  them, 
I  shall  have  to  send  you  to  prison  for  hindering  me  in 
the  execution  of  my  duty,"  he  said,  fixing  his  eyes  on 
Giovanni  and  preparing  to  sound  the  call. 

Giovanni's  blood  was  up,  and  he  would  not  have  let 
the  man  go.  At  that  moment,  however,  Faustina  broke 
from  Corona's  arms  and  sprang  forward.  With  one  hand 
she  pushed  back  Sant'  Ilario ;  with  the  other  she  seized 
the  whistle. 

"  I  will  go  with  you !  "  she  cried,  speaking  to  the  pre 
fect.  "  I  will  go  with  him !  "  she  repeated,  turning  to 
Giovanni.  "  It  is  a  horrible  mistake,  but  it  is  useless  to 
oppose  him  any  longer.  I  will  go,  I  say!  "  An  hysterical 
chorus  of  cries  from  her  relations  greeted  this  announce 
ment. 

Giovanni  made  a  last  effort  to  prevent  her  from  fulfill 
ing  her  intention.  He  was  too  much  excited  to  see  how 
hopeless  the  situation  really  was,  and  his  sense  of  justice 
was  revolted  at  the  thought  of  the  indignity. 

"  Donna  Faustina,  I  implore  you !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  I 
can  still  prevent  this  outrage  —  you  must  not  go.  I  will 
find  the  cardinal  and  explain  the  mistake  —  he  will  send 
an  order  at  once." 

"  You  are  mistaken^ "  answered  the  prefect.  "  He  will 
do  nothing  of  the  kind.  Besides,  you  cannot  leave 
this  house  without  my  permission.  The  doors  are  all 
guarded." 

"But  you  cannot  refuse  that  request,"  objected  Corona, 
who  had  not  spoken  during  the  altercation.  "  It  will  not 
take  half  an  hour  for  my  husband  to  see  his  Eminence 
and  get  the  order " 

"Nevertheless  I  refuse,"  replied  the  official  firmly. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  317 

"  Donna  Faustina  must  go  with  me  at  once.  You  are 
interfering  uselessly  and  making  a  useless  scandal.  My 
mind  is  made  up." 

"Then  I  will  go  with  her,"  said  Corona,  pressing  the 
girl  to  her  side  and  bestowing  a  contemptuous  glance  on 
the  cowering  figures  around  her. 

By  this  time  her  sisters-in-law  had  fallen  into  their 
respective  husband's  arms,  and  it  was  hard  to  say  whether 
the  men  or  the  women  were  more  hopelessly  hysterical. 
Giovanni  relinquished  the  contest  reluctantly,  seeing  that 
he  was  altogether  overmatched  by  the  prefect's  soldiers. 

"I  will  go  too,"  he  said.  "You  cannot  object  to  our 
taking  Donna  Faustina  in  our  carriage." 

"  I  do  not  object  to  that.  But  male  visitors  are  not 
allowed  inside  the  Termini  prison  after  dark.  The  Sig- 
nora  Principessa  may  spend  the  night  there  if  it  is  her 
pleasure.  I  will  put  a  gendarme  in  your  carriage  to  avoid 
informality."  . 

"I  presume  you  will  accept  my  promise  to  conduct 
Donna  Faustina  to  the  place,"  observed  Giovanni.  The 
prefect  hesitated. 

"It  is  informal,"  he  said  at  last,  "but  to  oblige  you  I 
will  do  it.  You  give  your  word?" 

"Yes  —  since  you  are  able  to  use  force.  We  act  under 
protest.  You  will  remember  that." 

Faustina's  courage  did  not  forsake  her  at  the  last  mo 
ment.  She  kissed  each  of  her  brothers  and  each  of  her 
sisters-in-law  as  affectionately  as  though  they  had  offered 
to  bear  her  company.  There  were  many  loud  cries  and 
sobs  and  protestations  of  devotion,  but  not  one  proposed 
to  go  with  her.  The  only  one  who  would  have  been  bold 
enough  was  Flavia,  and  even  if  she  had  been  present  she 
would  not  have  had  the  heart  to  perform  such  an  act  of 
unselfishness.  Faustina  and  Corona,  Giovanni  and  the 
prefect,  left  the  room  together. 

"I  will  have  you  in  prison  before  morning,"  said  Sant' 
Ilario  fiercely,  in  the  ear  of  the  official,  as  they  reached 
the  outer  hall. 

The  prefect  made  no  reply,  but  raised  his  shoulders 
almost  imperceptibly  and  smiled  for  the  first  time,  as  he 
pointed  silently  to  the  gendarmes.  The  latter  formed 
into  an  even  rank  and  tramped  down  the  stairs  after  the 


318  SANT'  ILARIO. 

four  persons  whom  they  accompanied.  In  a  few  minutes 
the  whole  party  were  on  their  way  to  the  Termini,  Faus 
tina  with  her  friends  in  Sant'  Ilario's  carriage,  the  pre 
fect  in  his  little  brougham,  the  soldiers  on  their  horses, 
trotting  steadily  along  in  a  close  squad. 

Faustina  sat  leaning  her  head  upon  Corona's  shoulder, 
while  Giovanni  looked  out  of  the  window  into  the  dark 
streets,  his  rage  boiling  within  him,  and  all  the  hotter 
because  he  was  powerless  to  change  the  course  of  events. 
From  time  to  time  he  uttered  savage  ejaculations  which 
promised  ill  for  the  prefect's  future  peace,  either  in  this 
world  or  in  the  next,  but  the  sound  of  the  wheels  rolling 
upon  the  uneven  paving-stones  prevented  his  voice  from 
reaching  the  two  women. 

"Dear  child,"  said  Corona,  "do  not  be  frightened. 
You  shall  be  free  to-night  or  in  the  morning  —  I  will  not 
leave  you." 

Faustina  was  silent,  but  pressed  her  friend's  hand 
again  and  again,  as  though  she  understood.  She  herself 
was  overcome  by  a  strange  wonderment  which  made  her 
almost  incapable  of  appreciating  what  happened  to  her. 
She  felt  very  much  as  she  had  felt  once  before,  on  the 
night  of  the  insurrection,  when  she  had  found  herself 
lying  upon  the  pavement  before  the  half-ruined  barracks, 
stunned  by  the  explosion,  unable  for  a  time  to  collect 
her  senses,  supported  only  by  her  physical  elasticity, 
which  was  yet  too  young  to  be  destroyed  by  any  moral 
shock. 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

On  the  following  morning  all  Home  rang  with  the 
news  that  the  Saracinesca  had  lost  their  title,  and  thai 
Faustina  Montevarchi  had  murdered  her  father.  No  one 
connected  the  two  events,  but  the  shock  to  the  public, 
mind  was  so  tremendous  that  almost  any  incredible  tale 
would  have  been  believed.  The  story,  as  it  was  generally 
told,  set  forth  that  Faustina  had  gone  mad  and  had  stran 
gled  her  father  in  his  sleep.  Every  one  agreed  in  affirm- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  319 

ing  that  he  had  been  found  dead  with  her  handkerchief 
tied  round  his  neck.  It  was  further  stated  that  the  young 
girl  was  no  longer  in  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi,  but  had 
been  transferred  to  the  women's  prison  at  the  Termini, 
pending  further  examination  into  the  details  of  the  case. 
The  Palazzo  Montevarchi  was  draped  in  black,  and  before 
night  funeral  hatchments  were  placed  upon  the  front  of 
the  parish  church  bearing  the  Montevarchi  arms.  No 
one  was  admitted  to  the  palace  upon  any  pretext  what 
ever,  though  it  was  said  that  San  Giacinto  and  Flavia 
had  spent  the  night  there.  No  member  of  the  family 
had  been  seen  by  any  one,  and  nobody  seemed  to  know 
exactly  whence  the  various  items  of  information  had 
been  derived. 

Strange  to  say,  every  word  of  what  was  repeated  so 
freely  was  true,  excepting  that  part  of  the  tale  which 
accused  Faustina  of  having  done  the  deed.  What  had 
taken  place  up  to  the  time  when  Corona  and  Giovanni 
had  come  may  be  thus  briefly  told. 

Prince  Montevarchi  had  been  found  dead  by  the  ser 
vant  who  came  to  bring  a  lamp  to  the  study,  towards 
evening,  when  it  grew  dark.  As  soon  as  the  alarm  was 
given  a  scene  of  indescribable  confusion  followed,  which 
lasted  until  the  prefect  of  police  arrived,  accompanied  by 
a  party  of  police  officials.  The  handkerchief  was  exam 
ined  and  identified.  Thereupon,  in  accordance  with  the 
Roman  practice  of  that  day,  the  prefect  had  announced 
his  determination  of  taking  Faustina  into  custody.  The 
law  took  it  for  granted  that  the  first  piece  of  circumstan 
tial  evidence  which  presented  itself  must  be  acted  upon 
with  the  utmost  promptitude.  A  few  questions  had 
shown  immediately  that  Faustina  was  the  last  person 
who  had  seen  Montevarchi  alive.  The  young  girl  exhib 
ited  a  calmness  which  surprised  every  one.  She  admitted 
that  her  father  had  been  angry  with  her  and  had  struck 
her,  but  she  denied  all  knowledge  of  his  death.  It  is 
sufficient  to  say  that  she  fearlessly  told  the  truth,  so 
fearlessly  as  to  prejudice  even  her  own  family  with 
regard  to  her.  Even  the  blood  on  the  handkerchief  was 
against  her,  though  she  explained  that  it  was  her  own, 
and  although  the  bruise  on  her  lip  bore  out  the  state 
ment.  The  prefect  was  inexorable.  He  explained  that 


320  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Faustina  could  be  taken  privately  to  the  Termini,  and 
that  the  family  might  use  its  influence  on  the  next  day 
to  procure  her  immediate  release,  but  that  his  duty  com 
pelled  him  for  the  present  to  secure  her  person,  that  he 
was  responsible,  that  he  was  only  doing  his  duty,  and 
so  forth  and  so  on. 

The  consternation  of  the  family  may  be  imagined. 
The  princess  broke  down  completely  under  what  seemed 
very  like  a  stroke  of  paralysis.  San  Giacinto  and  Flavia 
were  not  to  be  found  at  their  house,  and  as  the  carriage 
had  not  returned,  nobody  knew  where  they  were.  The 
wives  of  Faustina's  brothers  shut  themselves  up  in  their 
rooms  and  gave  way  to  hysterical  tears,  while  the  broth 
ers  themselves  seemed  helpless  to  do  anything  for  their 
sister. 

Seeing  herself  abandoned  by  every  one  Faustina  had 
sent  for  Corona  Saracinesca.  It  was  the  wisest  thing 
she  could  have  done.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  Corona 
and  her  husband  entered  the  room  together.  The  vio 
lent  scene  which  followed  has  been  already  described,  in 
which  Giovanni  promised  the  prefect  of  police  that  if 
he  persisted  in  his  intention  of  arresting  Faustina  he 
should  himself  be  lodged  in  the  Carceri  Nuove  in  twelve 
hours.  But  the  prefect  had  got  the  better  of  the  situa 
tion,  being  accompanied  by  an  armed  force  which  Gio 
vanni  was  powerless  to  oppose.  All  that  could  be 
obtained  had  been  that  Giovanni  and  C^  rona  should  take 
Faustina  to  the  Termini  in  their  carriage,  and  that 
Corona  should  stay  with  the  unfortunate  young  girl  all 
night  if  she  wished  to  do  so.  Giovanni  could  not  be 
admitted. 

The  prison  of  the  Termini  was  under  the  administra 
tion  of  an  order  of  nuns  devoted  especially  to  the  care  of 
prisoners.  The  prefect  arrived  in  his  own  carriage  sim 
ultaneously  with  the  one  which  conveyed  his  prisoner 
and  her  friends.  As  the  gate  was  opened  and  one  of  the 
sisters  appeared,  he  whispered  a  few  words  into  her  ear. 
She  looked  grave  at  first,  and  then,  when  she  saw  Faus 
tina's  angel  face,  she  shook  her  head  incredulously.  The 
prefect  had  accomplished  his  duty,  however.  The  prison- 
gates  closed  after  the  two  ladies,  and  the  sentinel  outside 
resumed  his  walk,  while  the  carriages  drove  away,  the 


SANT'  ILARIO.  321 

one  containing  the  officer  of  the  law  and  the  other 
Giovanni,  who  had  himself  driven  at  once  to  the  Vat 
ican,  in  spite  of  the  late  hour.  The  great  cardinal  re 
ceived  him  but,  to  his  amazement,  refused  an  order  of 
release. 

The  sister  who  admitted  Corona  and  Faustina  took  the 
latter 's  hand  kindly  and  looked  into  her  face  by  the  light 
of  the  small  lantern  she  carried. 

"It  is  some  dreadful  mistake,  my  child,"  she  said. 
"But  I  have  no  course  but  to  obey.  You  are  Donna 
Faustina  Monte  varchi?" 

"Yes — this  is  the  Princess  Sant'  Ilario." 

"Will  you  come  with  me?  I  will  give  you  the  best 
room  we  have  —  it  is  not  very  like  a  prison. " 

"This  is,"  said  Faustina,  shuddering  at  the  sight  of 
the  massive  stone  walls,  quite  as  much  as  from  the  damp 
ness  of  the  night  air. 

"  Courage,  dear ! "  whispered  Corona,  drawing  the  girl's 
slight  figure  close  to  her  and  arranging  the  mantle  upon 
her  shoulders.  But  Corona  herself  was  uneasy  as  to  the 
result  of  the  ghastly  adventure,  and  she  looked  anxiously 
forward  into  the  darkness  beyond  the  nun's  lantern. 

At  last  they  found  themselves  in  a  small  whitewashed 
chamber,  so  small  that  it  was  brightly  lighted  by  the 
two  wicks  of  a  brass  oil-lamp  on  the  table.  The  nun 
left  them  alone,  at  Corona's  request,  promising  to  return 
in  the  course  of  an  hour.  Faustina  sat  down  upon  the 
edge  of  the  little  bed,  and  Corona  upon  a  chair  beside 
her.  Until  now,  the  unexpected  excitement  of  what  had 
passed  during  the  last  three  or  four  hours  had  sustained 
the  young  girl.  Everything  that  had  happened  had 
seemed  to  be  a  part  of  a  dream  until  she  found  herself 
at  last  in  the  cell  of  the  Termini  prison,  abandoned  by 
every  one  save  Corona.  Her  courage  broke  down.  She 
threw  herself  back  upon  the  pillow  and  burst  into  tears. 
Corona  did  not  know  what  to  do,  but  tried  to  comfort  her 
as  well  as  she  could,  wondering  inwardly  what  would 
have  happened  had  the  poor  child  been  brought  to  such 
a  place  alone. 

"  What  have  I  done,  that  such  things  should  happen  to 
me?"  cried  Faustina  at  last,  sitting  up  and  staring 
wildly  at  her  friend.  Her  small  white  hands  lay  help- 

w 


322  SANT'  ILARIO. 

lessly  in  her  lap  and  her  rich,  brown  hair  was  beginning 
to  be  loosened  and  to  fall  upon  her  shoulders. 

The  tears  stood  in  Corona's  eyes.  It  seemed  to  her 
infinitely  pathetic  that  this  innocent  creature  should 
have  been  chosen  as  the  victim  to  expiate  so  monstrous 
a  crime. 

"It  will  be  all  cleared  up  in  the  morning,"  she  an 
swered,  trying  to  speak  cheerfully  or  at  least  hopefully. 
"It  is  an  abominable  mistake  of  the  prefect's.  I  will 
not  leave  you,  dear  —  take  heart,  we  will  talk  —  the  nun 
will  bring  you  something  to  eat  —  the  night  will  soon 
pass." 

"  In  prison !  "  exclaimed  Faustina,  in  a  tone  of  horror 
and  despair,  not  heeding  what  Corona  said. 

"  Try  and  fancy  it  is  not " 

"And  my  father  dead!"  She  seemed  suddenly  to 
realise  that  he  was  gone  for  ever.  "Poor  papa!  poor 
papa !  "  she  moaned.  "  Oh,  I  did  not  mean  to  be  unduti- 
ful  —  indeed  I  did  not  —  and  I  can  never  tell  you  so 
now " 

"You  must  not  reproach  yourself,  darling,"  said 
Corona,  trying  to  soothe  her  and  to  draw  the  pitiful  pale 
face  to  her  shoulder,  while  she  wound  her  arm  tenderly 
about  the  young  girl's  waist.  "Pray  for  him,  Faustina, 
but  do  not  reproach  yourself  too  much.  After  all,  dear, 
he  was  unkind  to  you " 

"Oh,  do  not  say  that  —  he  is  dead!  "  She  lowered  her 
voice  almost  to  a  whisper  as  she  spoke,  and  an  expres 
sion  of  awe  came  over  her  features.  "He  is  dead, 
Corona.  I  shall  never  see  him  again  —  oh,  why  did  I 
not  love  him  more?  I  am  frightened  when  I  think  that 
he  is  dead  —  who  did  it?" 

The  question  came  suddenly,  and  Faustina  started  and 
shuddered.  Corona  pressed  her  to  her  side  and  smoothed 
her  hair  gently.  She  felt  that  she  must  say  something, 
but  she  hardly  expected  that  Faustina  would  understand 
reason.  She  gathered  her  energy,  however,  to  make  the 
best  effort  in  her  power. 

"Listen  to  me,  Faustina,"  she  said,  in  a  tone  of  quiet 
authority,  "  and  try  and  see  all  this  as  I  see  it.  It  is 
not  right  that  you  should  reproach  yourself,  for  you  have 
had  no  share  in  your  father's  death,  and  if  you  parted  in 


TLAP.IO.  323 

anger  it  was  his  fault,  not  yours.  He  is  dead,  and  there 
is  nothing  for  you  to  do  but  to  pray  that  he  may  rest  in 
peace.  You  have  been  accused  unjustly  of  a  deed  which 
any  one  might  see  you  were  physically  incapable  of 
doing.  You  will  be  released  from  this  place  to-morrow 
morning,  if  not  during  the  night.  One  thing  is  abso 
lutely  necessary  —  you  must  be  calm  and  quiet,  or  you 
Avill  have  brain  fever  in  a  few  hours.  Do  not  think  I 
am  heartless,  dear.  A  worse  thing  might  have  happened 
to  you.  You  have  been  suspected  by  an  ignorant  man 
who  will  pay  dearly  for  his  mistake;  you  might  have 
been  suspected  by  those  you  love." 

Corona  sighed,  and  her  voice  trembled  with  the  last 
words.  To  her,  Faustina  was  suffering  far  more  from 
the  shock  to  her  sensibilities  than  from  any  real  grief. 
She  knew  that  she  had  not  loved  her  father,  but  the 
horror  of  his  murder  and  the  fright  at  being  held  account 
able  for  it  were  almost  enough  to  drive  her  mad.  And 
yet  she  could  not  be  suffering  what  Corona  had  suffered 
in  being  suspected  by  Giovanni,  she  had  not  that  to  lose 
which  Corona  had  lost,  the  dominating  passion  of  her  life 
had  not  been  suddenly  burnt  out  in  the  agony  of  an 
hour,  she  was  only  the  victim  of  a  mistake  which  could 
have  no  consequences,  which  would  leave  no  trace 
behind.  But  Faustina  shivered  and  turned  paler  still  at 
Corona's  words. 

"By  those  I  love?  Ah  no!  Not  by  him  —  by  them !" 
The  blood  rushed  to  her  white  face,  and  her  hand  fell  on 
her  friend's  shoulder. 

Corona  heard  and  knew  that  the  girl  was  thinking  of 
Anastase.  She  wondered  vaguely  whether  the  hot 
headed  soldier  artist  had  learned  the  news  and  what  he 
would  do  when  he  found  that  Faustina  was  lodged  in 
a  prison. 

"  And  yet  —  perhaps  —  oh  no !  It  is  impossible !  "  Her 
sweet,  low  voice  broke  again,  and  was  lost  in  passionate 
sobbing. 

For  a  long  time  Corona  could  do  nothing  to  calm  her. 
The  tears  might  be  a  relief  to  the  girl's  overwrought 
faculties,  but  they  were  most  distressing  to  hear  and  see. 

"  Do  you  love  him  very  much,  dear?  "  asked  Corona, 
when  the  paroxysm  began  to  subside. 


324  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

"I  would  die  for  him,  and  he  would  die  for  me," 
answered  Faustina  simply,  but  a  happy  smile  shone 
through  her  grief  that  told  plainly  how  much  dearer  to 
her  was  he  who  was  left  than  he  who  was  dead. 

"Tell  me  about  him,"  said  Corona  softly.  "He  is  a 
friend  of  mine " 

"Indeed  he  is!  You  do  not  know  how  he  worships 
you.  I  think  that  next  to  me  in  the  world  —  but  then, 
of  course,  he  could  not  love  you  —  besides,  you  are 
married." 

Corona  could  not  help  smiling,  and  yet  there  was  a 
sting  in  the  words,  of  which  Faustina  could  not  dream. 
Why  could  not  Giovanni  have  taken  this  child's  straight 
forward,  simple  view,  which  declared  such  a  thing 
impossible  —  because  Corona  was  married.  What  a 
wealth  of  innocent  belief  in  goodness  was  contained  in 
that  idea!  The  princess  began  to  discover  a  strange 
fascination  in  finding  out  what  Faustina  felt  for  this 
man,  whom  she,  Corona,  had  been  suspected  of  loving. 
What  could  it  be  like  to  love  such  a  man?  He  was  good- 
looking,  clever,  brave,  even  interesting,  perhaps;  but  to 
love  him  —  Corona  suddenly  felt  that  interest  in  the 
analysis  of  his  character  which  is  roused  in  us  when  we 
are  all  at  once  brought  into  the  confidence  of  some  one 
who  can  tell  by  experience  what  we  should  have  felt 
with  regard  to  a  third  person,  who  has  come  very  near 
to  our  lives,  if  he  or  she  had  really  become  a  part  of  our 
existence.  Faustina's  present  pain  and  sense  of  danger 
momentarily  disappeared  as  she  was  drawn  into  talking 
of  what  absorbed  her  whole  nature,  and  Corona  saw  that 
by  leading  the  conversation  in  that  direction  she  might 
hope  to  occupy  the  girl's  thoughts. 

Faustina  seemed  to  forget  her  misfortunes  in  speaking 
of  Gouache,  and  Corona  listened,  and  encouraged  her  to 
go  on.  The  strong  woman  who  had  suffered  so  much 
saw  gradually  unfolded  before  her  a  series  of  pictures, 
constituting  a  whole  that  was  new  to  her.  She  compre 
hended  for  the  first  time  in  her  life  the  nature  of  an 
innocent  girl's  love,  and  there  was  something  in  what 
she  learned  that  softened  her  and  brought  the  moisture 
into  her  dark  eyes.  She  looked  at  the  delicate  young 
creature  beside  her,  seated  upon  the  rough  bed,  her 


SANT'  ILARIO.  325 

angelic  loveliness  standing  out  against  the  cold  back 
ground  of  the  whitewashed  wall.  The  outline  seemed 
almost  vaporous,  as  though  melting  into  the  transparency 
of  the  quiet  air;  the  gentle  brown  eyes  were  at  once  full 
of  suffering  and  full  of  love ;  the  soft,  thick  hair  fell  in 
disorder  upon  her  shoulders,  in  that  exquisite  disorder 
that  belongs  to  beautiful  things  in  nature  when  they  are 
set  free  and  fall  into  the  position  which  is  essentially 
their  own;  her  white  fingers,  refined  and  expressive, 
held  Corona's  slender  olive  hand,  pressing  it  and  moving 
as  they  touched  it,  with  every  word  she  spoke.  Corona 
almost  felt  that  some  spiritual,  half  divine  being  had 
glided  down  from  another  world  to  tell  her  of  an  angel's 
love. 

The  elder  woman  thought  of  her  own  life  and  compared 
it  with  what  she  saw.  Sold  to  a  decrepit  old  husband 
who  had  worshipped  her  in  strange,  pathetic  fashion  of 
his  own,  she  had  spent  five  years  in  submitting  to  an 
affection  she  loathed,  enduring  it  to  the  very  end,  and 
sacrificing  every  instinct  of  her  nature  in  the  perform 
ance  of  her  duty.  Liberated  at  last,  she  had  given  her 
self  up  to  her  love  for  Giovanni,  in  a  passion  of  the 
strong  kind  that  never  comes  in  early  youth.  She  asked 
herself  what  had  become  of  that  passion,  and  whether  it 
could  ever  be  revived.  In  any  case  it  was  something 
wholly  different  from  the  love  of  which  Faustina  was 
speaking.  She  had  fought  against  it  when  it  came,  with 
all  her  might;  being  gone,  it  had  left  her  cold  and 
indifferent  to  all  she  could  still  command,  incapable  of 
even  pretending  to  love.  It  had  passed  through  her  life 
as  a  whirlwind  through  a  deep  forest,  and  its  track  was 
like  a  scar.  What  Faustina  knew,  she  could  never  have 
known,  the  sudden  growth  within  her  of  something  beau 
tiful  against  which  there  was  no  need  to  struggle,  the 
whole-hearted  devotion  from  the  first,  the  joy  of  a  love 
that  had  risen  suddenly  like  the  dawn  of  a  fair  day,  the 
unspeakable  happiness  of  loving  intensely  in  perfect 
innocence  of  the  world,  of  giving  her  whole  soul  at  once 
and  for  ever,  unconscious  that  there  could  be  anything 
else  to  give. 

"I  would  die  for  him,  and  he  would  die  for  me," 
Faustina  had  said,  knowing  that  her  words  were  true. 


326  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Corona  would  die  for  Giovanni  now,  no  doubt,  but  not 
because  she  loved  him  any  longer.  She  would  sacrifice 
herself  for  what  had  been,  for  the  memory  of  it,  for  the 
bitterness  of  having  lost  it  and  of  feeling  that  it  could 
not  return.  That  was  a  state  very  different  from  Faus 
tina's;  it  was  pain,  not  happiness,  despair,  not  joy, 
emptiness,  not  fulness.  Her  eyes  grew  sad,  and  she 
sighed  bitterly  as  though  oppressed  by  a  burden  from 
which  she  could  not  escape.  Faustina's  future  seemed 
to  her  to  be  like  a  beautiful  vision  among  the  clouds  of 
sunrise;  her  own  like  the  reflection  of  a  mournful  scene 
in  a  dark  pool  of  stagnant  water.  The  sorrow  of  her 
life  rose  in .  her  eyes,  until  the  young  girl  saw  it  and 
suddenly  ceased  speaking.  It  was  like  a  reproach  to 
her,  for  her  young  nature  had  already  begun  to  forget  its 
trouble  in  the  sweetness  of  its  own  dream.  Corona  under 
stood  the  sudden  silence,  and  her  expression  changed, 
for  she  felt  that  if  she  dwelt  upon  what  was  nearest  to 
her  heart  she  could  give  but  poor  consolation. 

"  You  are  sad, "  said  Faustina.  "  It  is  not  for  me  — 
what  is  it?" 

"No.     It  is  not  for  you,  dear  child." 

Corona  looked  at  the  young  girl  for  a  moment  and  tried 
to  smile.  Then  she  rose  from  the  chair  and  turned 
away,  pretending  to  trim  the  brass  oil-lamp  with  the 
little  metal  snuffers  that  hung  from  it  by  a  chain.  The 
tears  blinded  her.  She  rested  her  hands  upon  the  table 
and  bent  her  head.  Faustina  watched  her  in  surprise, 
then  slipped  from  her  place  on  the  bed  and  stood  beside 
her,  looking  up  tenderly  into  the  sad  dark  eyes  from 
which  the  crystal  drops  welled  up  and  trickled  down, 
falling  upon  the  rough  deal  boards. 

"What  is  it,  dear?"  asked  the  young  girl.  "Will 
you  not  tell  me !  " 

Corona  turned  and  threw  her  arms  round  her,  pressing 
her  to  her  breast,  almost  passionately.  Faustina  did  not 
understand  what  was  happening. 

"  I  never  saw  you  cry  before !  "  she  exclaimed  in  inno 
cent  astonishment,  as  she  tried  to  brush  away  the  tears 
from  her  friend's  face. 

"  Ah  Faustina !  There  are  worse  things  in  the  world 
than  you  are  suffering,  child ! " 


SANT'  ILARIO.  327 

Then  she  made  a  great  effort  and  overcame  the  emo 
tion  that  had  taken  possession  of  her.  She  was  ashamed 
to  have  played  such  a  part  when  she  had  come  to  the 
place  to  give  comfort  to  another. 

" It  is  nothing,"  she  said,  after  a  moment's  pause.  " I 
think  I  am  nervous  —  at  least,  I  am  very  foolish  to  let 
myself  cry  when  I  ought  to  be  taking  care  of  you." 

A  long  silence  followed,  which  was  broken  at  last  by 
the  nun,  who  entered  the  room,  bringing  such  poor  food 
as  the  place  afforded.  She  repeated  her  assurance  that 
Faustina's  arrest  was  the  result  of  a  mistake,  and  that 
she  would  be  certainly  liberated  in  the  morning.  Then, 
seeing  that  the  two  friends  appeared  to  be  preoccupied, 
she  bade  them  good-night  and  went  away. 

It  was  the  longest  night  Corona  remembered  to  have 
ever  passed.  For  a  long  time  they  talked  a  little,  and  at 
length  Faustina  fell  asleep,  exhausted  by  all  she  had 
suffered,  while  Corona  sat  beside  her,  watching  her 
regular  breathing  and  envying  her  ability  to  rest.  She 
herself  could  not  close  her  eyes,  though  she  could  not 
explain  her  wakefulness.  At  last  she  lay  down  upon  the 
other  bed  and  tried  to  forget  herself.  After  many  hours 
she  lost  consciousness  for  a  time,  and  then  awoke  sud 
denly,  half  stifled  by  the  sickening  smell  of  the  lamp 
which  had  gone  out,  filling  the  narrow  room  with  the 
odour  of  burning  oil.  It  was  quite  dark,  and  the  pro 
found  silence  was  broken  only  by  the  sound  of  Faustina's 
evenly-drawn  breath.  The  poor  child  was  too  weary  to 
be  roiised  by  the  fumes  that  had  disturbed  Corona's  rest. 
But  Corona  rose  and  groped  her  way  to  the  window, 
which  she  opened  as  noiselessly  as  she  could.  Heavy 
iron  bars  were  built  into  the  wall  upon  the  outside,  and 
she  grasped  the  cold  iron  with  a  sense  of  relief  as  she 
looked  out  at  the  quiet  stars,  and  tried  to  distinguish 
the  trees  which,  as  she  knew,  were  planted  on  the  other 
side  of  the  desolate  grass-grown  square,  along  the  old 
wall  that  stood  there,  at  that  time,  like  a  fortification  be 
tween  the  Termini  and  the  distant  city.  Below  the  win 
dow  the  sentry  tramped  slowly  up  and  down  in  his  beat, 
his  steps  alone  breaking  the  intense  stillness  of  the  win 
ter  night.  Corona  realised  that  she  was  in  a  prison. 
There  was  something  in  the  discomfort  which  was  not 


328  SANT'  ILARIO. 

repugnant  to  her,  as  she  held  the  grating  in  her  fingers 
and  let  the  cold  air  blow  upon  her  face. 

After  all,  she  thought,  lier  life  would  seem  much  the 
same  in  such  a  place,  in  a  convent,  perhaps,  where  she 
could  be  alone  all  day,  all  night,  for  ever.  She  could  not 
be  more  unhappy  behind  those  bars  than  she  had  often 
been  in  the  magnificent  palaces  in  which  her  existence 
had  been  chiefly  passed.  Nothing  gave  her  pleasure, 
nothing  interested  her,  nothing  had  the  power  to  distract 
her  mind  from  the  aching  misery  that  beset  it.  She  said 
to  herself  a  hundred  times  a  day  that  such  apathy  was 
unworthy  of  her,  and  she  blamed  herself  when  she  found 
that  even  the  loss  of  the  great  Saracinesca  suit  left  her 
indifferent.  She  did  no  good  to  herself  and  none  to  any 
one  else,  so  far  as  she  could  see,  unless  it  were  good  to 
allow  Giovanni  to  love  her,  now  that  she  no  longer  felt 
a  thrill  of  pleasure  at  his  coming  nor  at  the  sound  of  his 
voice.  At  least  she  had  been  honest.  She  could  say  that, 
for  she  had  not  deceived  him.  She  had  forgiven  him, 
but  was  it  her  fault  if  he  had  destroyed  that  which  he 
now  most  desired?  Was  it  her  fault  that  forgiveness  did 
not  mean  love?  Her  suffering  was  not  the  selfish  pain 
of  wounded  vanity,  for  Giovanni's  despair  would  have 
healed  such  a  wound  by  showing  her  the  strength  of  his 
passion.  There  was  no  resentment  in  her  heart,  either, 
for  she  longed  to  love  him.  But  even  the  habit  of  loving 
was  gone,  broken  away  and  forgotten  in  the  sharp  agony 
of  an  hour.  She  had  done  her  best  to  bring  it  back,  she 
had  tried  to  repeat  phrases  that  had  once  come  from  her 
heart  with  the  conviction  of  great  joy,  each  time  they 
had  been  spoken.  But  the  words  were  dead  and  meant 
nothing,  or  if  they  had  a  meaning  they  told  her  of  the 
change  in  herself.  She  was  willing  to  argue  against  it, 
to  say  again  and  again  that  she  had  no  right  to  be  so 
changed,  that  there  had  been  enough  to  make  any  man 
suspicious,  that  she  would  have  despised  him  had  he 
overlooked  such  convincing  evidence.  Could  a  man  love 
truly  and  not  have  some  jealousy  in  his  nature?  Could  a 
man  have  such  overwhelming  proof  given  him  of  guilt  in 
the  woman  he  adored  and  yet  show  nothing,  any  more 
than  if  she  had  been  a  stranger?  But  the  argument  was 
not  satisfactory,  nor  conclusive.  If  human  ills  could 


SANT'  ILARIO.  329 

be  healed  by  the  use  of  logic,  there  would  long  since 
have  been  no  unhappiness  left  in  the  world.  Is  there 
anything  easier  than  to  deceive  one's  self  when  one 
wishes  to  be  deceived?  Nothing,  surely,  provided  that 
the  inner  reality  of  ourselves  which  we  call  our  hearts 
consents  to  the  deception.  But  if  it  will  not  consent, 
then  there  is  no  help  in  all  the  logic  that  has  been  lav 
ished  upon  the  philosophy  of  a  dozen  ages. 

Her  slender  fingers  tightened  upon  the  freezing  bars, 
and  once  more,  in  the  silent  night,  her  tears  flowed  down 
as  she  looked  up  at  the  stars  through  the  prison  window. 
The  new  condition  of  her  life  sought  an  expression  she 
had  hitherto  considered  as  weak  and  despicable,  and 
against  which  she  struggled  even  now.  There  was  no 
relief  in  weeping,  it  brought  her  no  sense  of  rest,  no 
respite  from  the  dull  consciousness  of  her  situation;  and 
yet  she  could  not  restrain  the  drops  that  fell  so  fast  upon 
her  hands.  She  suffered  always,  without  any  intermit  - 
tence,  as  people  do  who  have  little  imagination,  with  few 
but  strong  passions  and  a  constant  nature.  There  are 
men  and  women  whose  active  fancy  is  able  to  lend  a 
romantic  beauty  to  misfortune,  which  gives  some  pleas 
ure  even  to  themselves,  or  who  can  obtain  some  satisfac 
tion,  if  they  are  poets,  by  expressing  their  pain  in  grand 
or  tender  language.  There  are  others  to  whom  sorrow  is 
but  a  reality,  for  which  all  expression  seems  inadequate. 

Corona  was  such  a  woman,  too  strong  to  suffer  little, 
too  unimaginative  to  suffer  poetically.  There  are  those 
who  might  say  that  she  exaggerated  the  gravity  of  the 
position,  that,  since  Giovanni  had  always  been  faithful 
to  her,  had  acknowledged  his  error  and  repented  of  it  so 
sincerely,  there  was  no  reason  why  she  should  not  love 
him  as  before.  The  answer  is  very  simple.  The  highest 
kind  of  love  not  only  implies  the  highest  trust  in  the 
person  loved,  but  demands  it  in  return;  the  two  condi 
tions  are  as  necessary  to  each  other  as  body  and  soul,  so 
that  if  one  is  removed  from  the  other,  the  whole  love 
dies.  Our  relations  with  our  fellow-creatures  are  recip 
rocal  in  effect,  whatever  morality  may  require  in  theory, 
from  the  commonest  intercourse  between  mere  acquaint 
ances  to  the  bond  between  man  and  wife.  An  honest 
man  will  always  hesitate  to  believe  another  unless  he 


330  SANT'  ILARIO. 

himself  is  believed.  Humanity  gives  little,  on  the  whole, 
unless  it  expects  a  return ;  still  less  will  men  continue  to 
give  when  their  gifts  have  been  denounced  to  them  as 
false,  no  matter  what  apology  is  offered  after  the  mistake 
has  been  discovered.  Corona  was  very  human,  and  being 
outwardly  cold,  she  was  inwardly  more  sensitive  to  sus 
picion  than  very  expansive  women  can  ever  be.  With 
women  who  express  very  readily  what  they  feel,  the 
expression  often  assumes  such  importance  as  to  deceive 
them  into  believing  their  passions  to  be  stronger  than 
they  are.  Corona  had  given  all,  love,  devotion,  faithful 
ness,  and  yet,  because  appearances  had  been  against 
her,  Giovanni  had  doubted  her.  He  had  cut  the  plant 
down  at  the  very  root,  and  she  had  nothing  more  to 
give. 

Faustina  moved  in  her  sleep.  Corona  softly  closed  the 
window  and  once  more  lay  down  to  rest.  The  hours 
seemed  endless  as  she  listened  for  the  bells.  At  last  the 
little  room  grew  gray  and  she  could  distinguish  the  fur 
niture  in  the  gloom.  Then  all  at  once  the  door  opened, 
and  the  nun  entered,  bearing  her  little  lantern  and  peer 
ing  over  it  to  try  and  see  whether  the  occupants  of  the 
chamber  were  awake.  In  the  shadow  behind  her  Corona 
could  distinguish  the  figure  of  a  man. 

"The  prince  is  here,"  said  the  sister  in  a  low  voice,  as 
she  saw  that  Corona's  eyes  were  open.  The  latter  glanced 
at  Faustina,  whose  childlike  sleep  was  not  interrupted. 
She  slipped  from  the  bed  and  went  out  into  the  corridor. 

The  nun  would  have  led  the  two  down  to  the  parlour, 
but  Corona  would  not  go  so  far  from  Faustina.  At  their 
request  she  opened  an  empty  cell  a  few  steps  farther  on, 
and  left  Giovanni  and  his  wife  alone  in  the  gray  dawn. 
Corona  looked  eagerly  into  his  eyes  for  some  news  con 
cerning  the  young  girl.  He  took  her  hand  and  kissed  it. 

"My  darling  —  that  you  should  have  spent  the  night 
in  such  a  place  as  this !  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Never  mind  me.  Is  Faustina  at  liberty?  Did  you 
see  the  cardinal?" 

"I  saw  him."     Giovanni  shook  his  head. 

"  And  do  you  mean  to  say  that  he  would  not  give  the 
order  at  once  ?  " 

"  Nothing  would  induce  him  to  give  it.    The  prefect  got 


SANT'  ILARIO.  331 

there  before  me,  and  I  was  kept  waiting  half  an  hour 
while  they  talked  the  matter  over.  The  cardinal  declared 
to  me  that  he  knew  there  had  been  an  enmity  between 
Faustina  and  her  father  concerning  her  love  for  Gou 
ache— 

"  Her  love  for  Gouache !  "  repeated  Corona  slowly, 
looking  into  his  eyes.  She  could  not  help  it.  Giovanni 
turned  pale  and  looked  away  as  he  continued. 

"  Yes,  and  he  said  that  the  evidence  was  very  strong, 
since  no  one  had  been  known  to  enter  the  house,  and  the 
servants  were  clearly  innocent  —  not  one  of  them  be 
trayed  the  slightest  embarrassment." 

"In  other  words,  he  believes  that  Faustina  actually 
did  it?  " 

"It  looks  like  it,"  said  Giovanni  in  a  low  voice. 

"Giovanni!  "  she  seized  his  arm.  "Do  you  believe  it, 
too?" 

"I  will  believe  whatever  you  tell  me." 

"  She  is  as  innocent  as  I!  "  cried  Corona,  her  eyes  blaz 
ing  with  indignation.  Giovanni  understood  more  from 
the  words  than  she  meant  to  convey. 

"Will  you  never  forgive?"  he  asked  sadly. 

"I  did  not  mean  that  —  I  meant  Faustina.  Giovanni 
—  you  must  get  her  away  from  here.  You  can,  if  you 
will." 

"I  will  do  much  for  you,"  he  answered  quietly. 

"  It  is  not  for  me.  It  is  for  an  unfortunate  child  who 
is  the  victim  of  a  horrible  mistake.  I  have  comforted 
her  by  promising  that  she  should  be  free  this  morning. 
She  will  go  mad  if  she  is  kept  here." 

"  Whatever  I  do,  I  do  for  you,  and  I  will  do  nothing 
for  any  one  else.  For  you  or  for  no  one,  but  I  must  know 
that  it  is  really  for  you." 

Corona  understood  and  turned  away.  It  was  broad 
daylight  now,  as  she  looked  through  the  grating  of  the 
window,  watching  the  people  who  passed,  without  seeing 
them. 

"  What  is  Faustina  Montevarchi  to  me,  compared  with 
your  love? "  Giovanni  asked. 

Something  in  the  tone  of  his  voice  made  her  look  at 
him.  She  saw  the  intensity  of  his  feeling  in  his  eyes, 
and  she  wondered  that  he  should  try  to  tempt  her  to  love 


332  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

him  with  such  an  insignificant  bribe  —  with  the  hope  of 
liberating  the  young  girl.  She  did  not  understand  that 
he  was  growing  desperate.  Had  she  known  what  was  in 
his  mind  she  might  have  made  a  supreme  effort  to  deceive 
herself  into  the  belief  that  he  was  still  to  her  what  he 
had  been  so  long.  But  she  did  not  know. 

"For  the  sake  of  her  innocence,  Giovanni!"  she  ex 
claimed.  "Can  you  let  a  child  like  that  suffer  so?  I  am 
sure,  if  you  really  would  you  could  manage  it,  with  your 
influence.  Do  you  not  see  that  I  am  suffering  too,  for 
the  girl's  sake?" 

"Will  you  say  that  it  is  for  your  sake? " 

"  For  my  sake  —  if  you  will, "  she  cried  almost  impa 
tiently. 

"For  your  sake,  then,"  he  answered.  "Remember 
that  it  is  for  you,  Corona." 

Before  she  could  answer,  he  had  left  the  room,  with 
out  another  word,  without  so  much  as  touching  her  hand. 
Corona  gazed  sadly  at  the  open  door,  and  then  returned 
to  Faustina. 

An  hour  later  the  nun  entered  the  cell,  with  a  bright 
smile  on  her  face. 

"  Your  carriage  is  waiting  for  you  —  for  you  both, "  she 
said,  addressing  the  princess.  "  Donna  Faustina  is  free 
to  return  to  her  mother." 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

When  Giovanni  Saracinesca  had  visited  Cardinal  An- 
tonelli  on  the  previous  evening,  he  had  been  as  firmly 
persuaded  that  Faustina  was  innocent,  as  Corona  herself, 
and  was  at  first  very  much  astonished  by  the  view  the 
great  man  took  of  the  matter.  But  as  the  latter  devel 
oped  the  case,  the  girl's  guilt  no  longer  seemed  impos 
sible,  or  even  improbable.  The  total  absence  of  any 
ostensible  incentive  to  the  murder  gave  Faustina's  quar 
rel  with  her  father  a  very  great  importance,  which  was 
further  heightened  by  the  nature  of  the  evidence.  There 


SANT'  ILARIO.  333 

had  been  high  words,  in  the  course  of  which  the  Princess 
Montevarchi  had  left  the  room,  leaving  her  daughter 
alone  with  the  old  man.  No  one  had  seen  him  alive 
after  that  moment,  and  he  had  been  found  dead,  evidently 
strangled  with  her  handkerchief.  The  fact  that  Faustina 
had  a  bruise  on  her  arm  and  a  cut  on  her  lip  pointed  to 
the  conclusion  that  a  desperate  struggle  had  taken  place. 
The  cardinal  argued  that,  although  she  might  not  have 
had  the  strength  to  do  the  deed  if  the  contest  had  begun 
when  both  were  on  their  feet,  it  was  by  no  means  impos 
sible  that  so  old  a  man  might  have  been  overcome  by  a 
young  and  vigorous  girl,  if  she  had  attacked  him  when 
he  was  in  his  chair,  and  was  prevented  from  rising  by 
the  table  before  him.  As  for  the  monstrosity  of  the  act, 
the  cardinal  merely  smiled  when  Giovanni  alluded  to  it. 
Had  not  fathers  been  murdered  by  their  children  before, 
and  in  Eome?  The  argument  had  additional  weight, 
when  Giovanni  remembered  Faustina's  wild  behaviour 
on  the  night  of  the  insurrection.  A  girl  who  was  capable 
of  following  a  soldier  into  action,  and  who  had  spent 
hours  in  searching  for  him  after  such  an  appalling  disas 
ter  as  the  explosion  of  the  Serristori  barracks,  might  well 
be  subject  to  fits  of  desperate  anger,  and  it  was  by  no 
means  far  from  likely,  if  her  father  had  struck  her  in  the 
face  from  his  place  at  the  table,  that  she  should  have  laid 
violent  hands  upon  him,  seizing  him  by  the  throat  and 
strangling  him  with  her  handkerchief.  Her  coolness 
afterwards  might  be  only  a  part  of  her  odd  nature,  for 
she  was  undoubtedly  eccentric.  She  might  be  mad,  said 
the  cardinal,  shaking  his  head,  but  there  was  every  prob 
ability  that  she  was  guilty.  In  those  days  there  was 
no  appeal  from  the  statesman's  decisions  in  such  matters. 
Faustina  would  remain  a  prisoner  until  she  could  be 
tried  for  the  crime. 

His  Eminence  was  an  early  riser,  and  was  not  alto 
gether  surprised  that  Giovanni  should  come  to  him  at 
such  an  hour,  especially  as  he  knew  that  the  Princess 
Sant'  Ilario  had  spent  the  night  with  Faustina  in  the 
Termini  prison.  He  was  altogether  taken  aback,  how 
ever,  by  Giovanni's  manner,  and  by  the  communication 
he  made. 

"  I  had  the  honour  of  telling  your  Eminence  last  night, 


334  SANT'  ILARIO. 

that  Donna  Faustina  Monte  varchi  was  innocent, "  began 
Giovanni,  who  refused  the  offer  of  a  seat.  "  I  trusted 
that  she  might  be  liberated  immediately,  but  you  have 
determined  otherwise.  I  am  not  willing  that  an  innocent 
person  should  suffer  unjustly.  I  have  come,  therefore, 
to  surrender  myself  to  justice  in  this  case." 

The  cardinal  stared,  and  an  expression  of  unmitigated 
astonishment  appeared  upon  his  delicate  olive  features, 
while  his  nervous  hands  grasped  the  arms  of  his  chair. 

"You!"  he  cried. 

"  I,  your  Eminence.  I  will  explain  myself.  Yester 
day  the  courts  delivered  their  verdict,  declaring  that  my 
cousin  San  Giacinto  is  Prince  Saracinesca,  instead  of  my 
father,  and  transferring  to  him  all  our  hereditary  prop 
erty.  The  man  who  found  out  that  there  was  a  case 
against  us,  and  caused  it  to  be  brought  to  trial,  was 
Prince  Montevarchi.  You  may  perhaps  understand  my 
resentment  against  him.  If  you  recollect  the  evidence 
which  was  detailed  to  you  last  night  you  will  see  that  it 
was  quite  possible  for  me  to  go  to  him  without  being 
observed.  The  door  chanced  to  be  open,  and  there  was 
no  one  in  the  hall.  I  am  perfectly  acquainted  with  the 
house.  Several  hours  elapsed  between  the  time  when 
Donna  Faustina  left  her  father  and  the  moment  when  he 
was  found  dead  in  his  chair.  You  can  understand  how 
I  could  enter  the  room  unseen,  how  angry  words  naturally 
must  have  arisen  between  us,  and  how,  losing  my  self- 
control,  I  could  have  picked  up  Donna  Faustina's  hand 
kerchief  which,  as  she  says,  lay  upon  the  floor,  and 
knotted  it  effectually  round  the  old  man's  neck.  What 
could  he  do  in  my  hands?  The  study  is  far  from  the 
other  rooms  the  family  inhabit,  and  is  near  the  hall. 
To  go  quietly  out  would  not  have  been  a  difficult  matter 
for  any  one  who  knew  the  house.  Your  Eminence  knows 
as  well  as  I  the  shallowness  of  circumstantial  evidence." 

"And  do  you  tell  me,  calmly,  like  this,  that  you 
murdered  a  helpless  old  man  out  of  revenge  ?  "  asked  the 
cardinal,  half-indignantly,  half-incredulously. 

"Would  I  surrender  myself  as  the  murderer,  for  a 
caprice?"  inquired  Giovanni,  who  was  very  pale. 

The  cardinal  looked  at  him  and  was  silent  for  a  fev,- 
moments,  He  was  puzzled  by  what  he  heard,  and  yet  his 


SANT'  ILARIO.  335 

common  sense  told  him  that  he  had  no  course  but  to 
liberate  Faustina  and  send  Giovanni  to  prison.  He  felt, 
too,  that  he  ought  to  experience  an  instinctive  repulsion 
for  the  man  before  him,  who,  by  his  own  showing,  had 
been  guilty  of  such  a  horrible  crime;  but  he  was  con 
scious  of  no  such  sensation.  He  was  a  man  of  exceed 
ingly  quick  and  true  intuitions,  who  judged  the  persons 
with  whom  he  had  business  very  accurately.  There  was 
a  lack  of  correspondence  between  his  intelligence  and  his 
feelings  which  roused,  his  curiosity. 

"You  have  told  me  a  very  strange  story,"  he  said. 

"Less  strange  than  the  one  your  Eminence  has  be 
lieved  since  last  night,"  returned  Giovanni  calmly. 

"  I  do  not  know.  It  is  more  easy  for  me  to  believe 
that  the  girl  was  momentarily  out  of  her  mind  than  that 
you,  whom  I  have  known  all  my  life,  should  have  done 
such  a  thing.  Besides,  in  telling  me  your  story,  you 
have  never  once  positively  asserted  that  you  did  it.  You 
have  only  explained  that  it  would  have  been  possible  for  a 
man  so  disposed  to  accomplish  the  murder  unsuspected." 

"  Is  a  man  obliged  to  incriminate  himself  directly?  It 
seems  to  me  that  in  giving  myself  up  I  have  done  all 
that  a  man's  conscience  can  possibly  require  —  outside 
of  the  confessional.  I  shall  be  tried,  and  my  lawyer  will 
do  what  he  can  to  obtain  my  acquittal." 

"  That  is  poor  logic.  Whether  you  confess  or  not,  you 
have  accused  yourself  in  a  way  that  must  tell  against 
you  very  strongly.  You  really  leave  me  no  choice." 

"Your  Eminence  has  only  to  do  what  I  request,  to 
liberate  Donna  Faustina  and  to  send  me  to  prison." 

"  You  are  a  very  strange  man, "  said  the  cardinal  in  a 
musing  tone,  as  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair  and  scruti 
nised  Giovanni's  pale,  impenetrable  face. 

"I  am  a  desperate  man,  that  is  all." 

"  Will  you  give  me  your  word  of  honour  that  Faustina 
Monte varchi  is  innocent?" 

"Yes,"  answered  Giovanni  without  the  slightest  hesi 
tation,  and  meeting  the  gaze  of  the  cardinal's  bright 
eyes  unflinchingly. 

The  latter  paused  a  moment,  and  then  turned  in  his 
chair,  and  taking  a  piece  of  paper  wrote  a  few  words 
upon  it.  Then  he  rang  a  little  hand-bell  that  stood 


336  SANT'  ILARIO. 

beside  him.  His  servant  entered,  as  lie  was  folding  and 
sealing  the  note. 

"To  the  Termini  prison,"  he  said. 

"  The  messenger  had  better  take  my  carriage,"  observed 
Giovanni.  "I  shall  not  need  it  again." 

"Take  Prince  Sant'  Ilario's  carriage,"  added  the  car 
dinal,  and  the  man  left  the  room.  "And  now,"  he  con 
tinued,  "  will  you  be  good  enough  to  tell  me  what  I  ain 
to  do  with  you?" 

"  Send  me  to  the  Carceri  Nuove,  or  to  any  convenient 
place." 

"  I  will  do  nothing  that  can  be  an  injury  to  you  here 
after,"  answered  the  statesman.  "Something  tells  me 
that  you  have  had  nothing  to  do  with  this  dreadful 
murder.  But  you  must  know  that  though  you  may 
deceive  me  —  I  am  not  omniscient  —  I  will  not  tolerate 
any  contempt  of  the  ways  of  justice.  You  have  surren 
dered  yourself  as  the  criminal,  and  I  intend  to  take  you 
at  your  word." 

"  I  ask  for  nothing  else.  Put  me  where  you  please,  do 
what  you  please  with  me.  It  matters  very  little." 

"  You  act  like  a  man  who  has  had  an  unfortunate  love 
affair,"  remarked  the  cardinal.  "It  is  true  that  you 
have  just  lost  your  fortune,  and  that  may  account  for  it. 
But  I  repeat  that,  whatever  your  motives  may  be,  you 
shall  not  trifle  with  the  law.  You  wish  to  be  a  prisoner. 
The  law  will  oblige  you  so  far  as  to  comply  with  your 
request.  I  warn  you  that,  after  this,  you  can  only  obtain 
your  freedom  through  a  proper  trial." 

"  Pray  let  it  be  so.  My  motives  can  be  of  no  impor 
tance.  The  law  shall  judge  the  facts  and  give  its  ver 
dict." 

"The  law  will  certainly  do  so.  In  the  meantime, 
you  will  spend  the  day  in  a  room  of  my  apartments,  and 
this  evening,  when  it  is  dark,  you  will  be  quietly  trans 
ferred  to  a  place  of  safety  —  and  secrecy.  If  the  real 
murderer  is  ever  found,  I  do  not  wish  your  life  to  have 
been  ruined  by  such  a  piece  of  folly  as  I  believe  you  are 
committing.  You  say  you  are  a  desperate  man,  and  you 
are  acting,  I  think,  as  though  you  were.  Your  family 
affairs  may  have  led  to  this  state,  but  they  do  not  con 
cern  me.  You  will,  however,  be  good  enough  to  swear, 


SANT'  ILARIO.  337 

here,  solemnly,  laying  your  hand  upon  this  book,  that 
you  will  not  attempt  to  destroy  yourself." 

"I  swear,"  said  Giovanni,  touching  the  volume  which 
the  cardinal  presented  to  him. 

"Very  good.  Now  follow  me,  if  you  please,  to  the 
room  where  you  must  spend  the  day." 

Giovanni  found  himself  in  a  small  chamber  which  con 
tained  only  a  large  writing-table  and  a  couple  of  chairs, 
and  which  seemed  to  have  been  destined  for  some  sort  of 
office.  The  cardinal  closed  the  door,  and  Giovanni  heard 
him  turn  the  key  and  remove  it  from  the  lock.  Then, 
for  the  first  time,  he  reflected  upon  what  he  had  done. 
He  had  spoken  the  truth  when  he  had  said  that  he  was 
desperate.  No  other  word  could  describe  his  state.  A 
sort  of  madness  had  taken  possession  of  him  while  he 
was  talking  with  Corona,  and  he  was  still  under  its 
influence.  There  had  been  something  in  her  manner 
which  had  seemed  to  imply  that  he  was  not  doing  his 
best  to  liberate  Faustina,  and  indeed,  when  he  remem 
bered  that  the  girl's  innocence  was  by  no  means  clear  to 
him,  he  ought  not  to  have  been  surprised  at  Corona's 
imputation.  And  yet,  he  had  now  pledged  his  word  to  the 
cardinal  that  Faustina  had  not  done  the  deed.  Corona's 
unwillingness  to  admit  that  it  was  for  her  own  sake  she 
asked  his  help  had  driven  him  nearly  out  of  his  mind, 
and  when  she  had  at  last  said  it,  even  reluctantly,  he 
had  immediately  resolved  to  show  her  what  he  was  will 
ing  to  do  for  one  word  of  hers  when  she  chose  to  speak 
it.  He  had  from  that  moment  but  one  thought,  to 
free  Faustina  at  any  cost,  and  no  plan  suggested  itself 
to  him  but  to  surrender  himself  in  the  girl's  place.  As 
a  matter  of  fact,  he  could  not  have  accomplished  his  pur 
pose  so  quickly  or  surely  in  any  other  way,  and  perhaps 
he  could  not  have  otherwise  accomplished  it  at  all.  It 
had  been  quite  clear  to  him  from  the  first  that  the  cardi 
nal  was  prejudiced  against  Faustina,  owing,  no  doubt,  to 
the  representations  of  the  prefect  of  police.  Giovanni 
had  carried  the  evidence  against  her  clearly  in  his  mind, 
and  as  soon  as  he  thought  of  the  expedient  he  saw  how  it 
Avould  have  been  quite  possible  for  himself,  or  for  any 
other  man  who  knew  the  house,  to  commit  the  murder. 
As  for  the  detail  concerning  the  doors  being  open,  there 

x 


338  SANT'  ILARIO. 

was  nothing  improbable  in  it,  seeing  that  there  were 
many  servants  in  the  establishment,  and  that  each  one 
would  suspect  and  accuse  one  of  his  companions  of  the 
carelessness.  Nothing  was  easier  than  to  construct  the 
story,  and  he  had  supposed  that  nothing  would  be  simpler 
than  to  make  the  cardinal  believe  it.  He  had  been  sur 
prised  to  find  himself  mistaken  upon  this  point,  but  he 
felt  a  thrill  of  triumph  that  more  than  repaid  him  for 
what  he  had  done,  when  he  saw  the  messenger  leave  the 
room  with  the  order  to  liberate  Faustina.  Corona  had 
spoken,  had  asked  him  to  do  a  hard  thing  for  her  sake, 
and  her  caprice  was  satisfied,  it  mattered  little  at  what 
cost.  She  had  given  him  an  opportunity  of  showing 
what  he  would  do  for  her,  and  that  opportunity  had  not 
been  thrown  away. 

But  as  he  sat  alone  in  the  little  room  the  cardinal  had 
assigned  to  him,  he  began  to  realise  the  magnitude  of  what 
he  had  been  doing,  and  to  see  how  his  actions  would  be 
judged  by  others.  He  had  surrendered  himself  as  a 
murderer,  and  was  to  be  treated  as  one.  When  the  time 
came  for  the  trial,  might  it  not  happen  with  him  as  with 
many  another  innocent  man  who  has  put  himself  into  a 
false  position?  Might  he  not  be  condemned?  Nothing 
that  he  could  say  hereafter  could  remove  the  impression 
created  by  his  giving  himself  up  to  justice.  Any  denial 
hereafter  would  be  supposed  to  proceed  from  fear  and 
not  from  innocence.  And  if  he  were  condemned,  what 
would  become  of  Corona,  of  his  father,  of  little  Orsino? 
He  shuddered  at  the  thought. 

What,  he  asked  himself,  would  be  the  defence?  Yes 
terday  afternoon  he  had  been  out  of  the  house  during 
several  hours,  and  had  walked  alone,  he  hardly  remem 
bered  where.  Since  the  crisis  in  his  life  which  had 
separated  him  from  Corona  in  fact,  if  not  in  appearance, 
he  often  walked  alone,  wandering  aimlessly  through  the 
streets.  Would  any  of  his  acquaintance  come  forward 
and  swear  to  having  seen  him  at  the  time  Montevarchi 
was  murdered?  Probably  not.  And  if  not,  how  could  it 
be  proved,  in  the  face  of  his  own  statement  to  the  car 
dinal,  that  he  might  not  have  gone  to  the  palace,  seeking 
an  opportunity  of  expending  his  wrath  on  the  old  prince, 
that  he  might  not  have  lost  his  self-control  in  a  fit  of 


SANT'  ILARIO.  339 

anger  and  strangled  the  old  man  as  he  sat  in  his  chair? 
As  he  himself  had  said,  there  was  far  more  reason  to 
believe  that  the  Saracinesca  had  killed  Moiitevarchi  out 
of  revenge,  than  that  a  girl  like  Faustina  should  have 
strangled  her  own  father  because  he  had  interfered  in  her 
love  affairs.  If  the  judges  took  this  view  of  the  case,  it 
was  clear  that  Giovanni  would  have  little  chance  of  an 
acquittal.  The  thing  looked  so  possible  that  even  Corona 
might  believe  it  —  even  Corona,  for  whose  sake  he  had 
rushed  madly  into  such  desperate  danger. 

And  to-day  she  would  not  see  him;  very  possibly  she 
would  not  know  where  he  was.  And  to-morrow?  And 
the  next  day?  And  all  the  days  after  that?  He  sup 
posed  that  he  would  be  allowed  to  write  to  her,  perhaps 
to  see  her,  but  it  would  be  hard  to  explain  his  position. 
She  did  not  love  him  any  longer,  and  she  would  not 
understand.  He  wondered  how  much  she  would  care,  if 
she  really  cared  at  all,  beyond  a  discreet  anxiety  for  his 
safety.  She  would  certainly  not  comprehend  a  love  like 
his,  which  had  chosen  such  a  sacrifice,  rather  than  allow 
her  wish  to  remain  ungratified.  How  could  she,  since 
she  did  not  love  him?  And  yet,  it  was  imperatively 
necessary  that  she  should  be  informed  of  what  had  hap 
pened.  She  might  otherwise  suppose,  naturally  enough, 
that  some  accident  had  befallen  him,  and  she  would  in 
that  case  apply  to  the  police,  perhaps  to  the  cardinal 
himself,  to  find  out  where  he  was.  Such  a  contingency 
must  be  prevented,  by  some  means,  before  night.  Until 
then,  she  would  not  be  frightened  by  his  absence. 
There  would  be  time,  perhaps,  when  he  was  removed  to 
the  prison  —  to  the  place  of  safety  and  secrecy,  of  which 
the  cardinal  had  spoken,  and  which  in  all  probability 
was  the  Holy  Office.  No  questions  were  asked  there. 

There  were  writing  materials  on  the  broad  table,  and 
Giovanni  began  a  letter  to  his  wife.  After  a  few  min 
utes,  however,  he  stopped,  for  he  saw  from  what  he  had 
written  that  he  was  in  no  condition  to  attempt  such  a 
task.  The  words  came  quickly  and  fluently,  but  they 
expressed  what  he  had  no  intention  of  telling  Corona 
again.  His  love  for  her  was  still  uppermost  in  his  mind, 
and  instead  of  trying  to  explain  what  had  occurred,  he 
found  himself  setting  down  phrases  that  told  of  nothing 


340  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

but  a  mad  passion.  The  thought  of  her  cold  face  when 
she  should  read  the  lines  arrested  his  hand,  and  he  threw 
down  the  pen  impatiently,  and  returned  to  his  medita 
tions  for  a  while.  What  he  wanted  to  do  was  to  tell  her 
in  the  fewest  possible  words  that  he  was  alive  and  well. 
What  else  should  he  tell  her?  The  statement  would 
allay  any  anxiety  she  might  feel,  and  his  absence  would 
doubtless  be  a  relief  to  her.  The  thought  was  bitter, 
but  he  knew  that  nothing  exasperates  a  woman  like  the 
constant  presence  of  a  man  'she  has  loved,  who  loves  her 
more  than  ever,  and  for  whom  she  no  longer  feels  any 
thing.  At  last  he  took  another  sheet  of  paper  and  tried 
again. 

"  Dear  Corona  —  When  you  get  this,  Faustina  will  be  at  liberty, 
according  to  your  wish.  Do  not  be  anxious  if  you  do  not  see  nie 
for  a  few  days,  as  I  am  called  away  on  urgent  business.  Tell  my 
father,  and  any  of  our  friends  who  ask  about  me,  that  I  am  at 
Saracinesca,  superintending  the  removal  of  such  effects  as  are  not 
to  go  to  San  Giacinto.  I  will  let  you  know  when  I  am  coming 
back —  Your  affectionate  GIOVANNI." 

He  read  the  note  over  twice,  and  then  folded  it, 
addressing  it  to  his  wife.  His  face  expressed  the  most 
profound  dejection  when  he  had  finished  his  task,  and 
for  a  long  time  he  leaned  back  in  his  chair,  gazing  at  the 
morning  sunlight  that  slowly  crept  across  the  floor,  while 
his  hands  lay  folded  passively  upon  the  table.  The  end 
of  his  love  seemed  very  bitter  as  he  thought  of  the  words 
he  had  written.  A  few  weeks  ago  to  leave  Corona  thus 
unexpectedly  would  have  caused  her  the  greatest  pain. 
Now,  he  felt  that  he  need  say  nothing,  that  it  would  be 
useless  to  say  anything,  more  than  he  had  said.  It  was 
nothing  to  her,  whether  he  stayed  in  Rome  or  went  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth;  indeed,  he  suspected  that  she 
would  be  glad  to  be  left  alone  —  unless  she  should  dis 
cover  why  he  had  gone,  and  whither.  This  last  consid 
eration  recalled  to  him  his  situation,  and  for  a  moment 
he  was  horrified  at  his  own  rashness.  But  the  thought 
did  not  hold  him  long,  and  presently  he  asked  himself 
apathetically  what  it  could  matter  in  the  end.  The 
hours  passed  slowly,  and  still  he  sat  motionless  by  the 
table,  the  folded  letter  lying  before  him. 

The  cardinal  had  scarcely  returned  to  his  study  when 


SANT'  ILARIO.  341 

a  second  card  was  brought  to  him.  The  gentleman,  said 
the  servant,  had  assured  him  that  his  Eminence  would 
receive  him,  as  he  had  important  information  to  give 
concerning  the  murder  of  Prince  Monte  varchi.  The 
cardinal  could  not  repress  a  smile  as  he  read  the  name  of 
Anastase  Gouache. 

The  young  man  entered  the  room,  and  advanced  in 
obedience  to  the  cardinal's  friendly  gesture.  He  was  as 
pale  as  death,  and  his  soft  dark  eyes  had  an  expression 
of  despair  in  them  such  as  the  great  man  had  rarely 
seen.  For  the  rest,  he  wore  his  uniform,  and  was  as 
carefully  dressed  as  usual. 

"  Your  Eminence  has  doubtless  heard  of  this  dreadful 
murder?"  began  Gouache,  forgetting  all  formality  in  the 
extremity  of  his  excitement. 

"Yes,"  said  the  cardinal,  sitting  down.  "You  have 
something  to  communicate  concerning  it,  I  understand." 

"  Donna  Faustina  Montevarchi  has  been  charged  with 
the  crime,  and  is  in  the  prison  of  the  Termini, "  answered 
the  Zouave,  speaking  hurriedly.  "  I  am  here  to  ask  your 
Eminence  to  order  her  release  without  delay " 

"On  what  grounds?"  inquired  the  statesman,  raising 
his  eyebrows  a  little  as  though  surprised  by  the  way  in 
which  the  request  was  made. 

"  Because  she  is  innocent,  because  her  arrest  was  due 
to  the  mistake  of  the  prefect  of  police  —  the  evidence 
was  against  her,  but  it  was  absurd  to  suppose  that  she 
could  have  done  it " 

"The  prefect  of  police  received  my  approval.  Have 
you  any  means  of  showing  that  she  is  innocent?" 

"Showing  it?"  repeated  Gouache,  who  looked  dazed 
for  a  moment,  but  recovered  himself  immediately,  turn 
ing  white  to  the  lips.  "What  could  be  easier?"  he 
exclaimed.  "The  murderer  is  before  you  —  I  saw  the 
prince,  I  asked  him  for  his  daughter's  hand  in  marriage, 
he  insulted  me.  I  left  the  room,  but  I  returned  soon 
afterwards.  I  found  him  alone,  and  I  killed  him  —  I  do 
not  know  how  I  did  it " 

"With  Donna  Faustina's  handkerchief,"  suggested  the 
cardinal.  "Perhaps  you  do  not  remember  that  it  was 
lying  on  the  floor  and  that  you  picked  it  up  and  knotted 
it " 


342  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"  Yes,  yes !  Round  his  neck, "  cried  Gouache  ner 
vously.  "  I  remember.  But  I  saw  red,  everything  swam, 
the  details  are  gone.  Here  I  am  —  your  Eminence's 
prisoner  —  I  implore  you  to  send  the  order  at  once ! " 

The  cardinal  had  hitherto  maintained  a  grave  expres 
sion.  His  features  suddenly  relaxed  and  he  put  out  his 
hand. 

"  My  dear  Monsieur  Gouache,  I  like  you  exceedingly, " 
he  said.  "  You  are  a  man  of  heart." 

"  I  do  not  understand "  Anastase  was  very  much 

bewildered,  but  he  saw  that  his  plan  for  freeing  Faustina 
was  on  the  point  of  failure. 

"I  appreciate  your  motives,"  continued  the  statesman. 
"  You  love  the  young  lady  to  distraction,  she  is  arrested 
on  a  capital  charge,  you  conceive  the  idea  of  presenting 
yourself  as  the  murderer  in  her  place  • 


"But  I  assure  your  Eminence,  I  swear- 


"No,"  interrupted  the  other,  raising  his  hand.  "Do 
not  swear.  You  are  incapable  of  such  a  crime.  Besides, 
Donna  Faustina  is  already  at  liberty,  and  the  author  of 
the  deed  has  already  confessed  his  guilt." 

Anastase  staggered  against  the  projecting  shelf  of  the 
bookcase.  The  blood  rushed  to  his  face  and  for  a 
moment  he  was  almost  unconscious  of  where  he  was. 
The  cardinal's  voice  recalled  him  to  himself. 

"  If  you  doubt  what  I  tell  you,  you  need  only  go  to  the 
Palazzo  Montevarchi  and  inquire.  Donna  Faustina  will 
return  with  the  Princess  Sant'  Ilario.  I  am  sorry  that 
circumstances  prevent  me  from  showing  you  the  man 
who  has  confessed  the  crime.  He  is  in  my  apartments 
at  the  present  moment,  separated  from  us  only  by  two 
or  three  rooms." 

"His  name,  Eminence?"  asked  Gouache,  whose  whole 
nature  seemed  to  have  changed  in  a  moment. 

"Ah,  his  name  must  for  the  present  remain  a  secret 
in  my  keeping,  unless,  indeed,  you  have  reason  to 
believe  that  some  one  else  did  the  murder.  Have  you 
no  suspicions?  You  know  the  family  intimately,  it 
seems.  You  would  probably  have  heard  the  matter  men 
tioned,  if  the  deceased  prince  had  been  concerned  in  any 
quarrel  —  in  any  transaction  which  might  have  made 
him  an  object  of  hatred  to  any  one  we  know.  Do  you 


SANT'  ILARIO.  343 

recall  anything  of  the  kind?  Sit  down,  Monsieur  Gou 
ache.  You  are  acquitted,  you  see.  Instead  of  being  a 
murderer  you  are  the  good  friend  who  once  painted  my 
portrait  in  this  very  room.  Do  you  remember  our  charm 
ing  conversations  about  Christianity  and  the  universal 
republic?" 

"I  shall  always  remember  your  Eminence's  kindness," 
answered  Gouache,  seating  himself  and  trying  to  speak 
as  quietly  as  possible.  His  nervous  nature  was  very 
much  unsettled  by  what  had  occurred.  He  had  come 
determined  that  Faustina  should  be  liberated  at  any  cost, 
overcome  by  the  horror  of  her  situation,  ready  to  lay  down 
his  life  for  her  in  the  sincerity  of  his  devotion.  His 
conduct  had  been  much  more  rational  than  Giovanni's. 
He  had  nothing  to  lose  but  himself,  no  relations  to  be 
disgraced  by  his  condemnation,  none  to  suffer  by  his  loss. 
He  had  only  to  sacrifice  himself  to  set  free  for  ever  the 
woman  he  loved,  and  he  had  not  hesitated  a  moment  in 
the  accomplishment  of  his  purpose.  But  the  revulsion 
of  feeling,  when  he  discovered  that  Faustina  was  already 
known  to  be  innocent,  and  that  there  was  no  need  for  his 
intervention,  was  almost  more  than  he  could  bear.  The 
tears  of  joy  stood  in  his  eyes  while  he  tried  to  be  calm. 

"Have  you  any  suspicions?"  asked  the  cardinal  again, 
in  his  gentle  voice. 

"  None,  Eminence.  The  only  thing  approaching  to  a 
quarrel,  of  which  I  have  heard,  is  the  suit  about  the  title 
of  the  Saracinesca.  But  of  course  that  can  have  nothing 
to  do  with  the  matter.  It  was  decided  yesterday  without 
opposition." 

"It  could  have  nothing  to  do  with  the  murder,  you 
think?  "  inquired  the  statesman  with  an  air  of  interest. 

"No.  How  could  it?  "  Gouache  laughed  at  the  idea. 
"  The  Saracinesca  could  not  murder  their  enemies  as  they 
used  to  do  five  hundred  years  ago.  Besides,  your  Emi 
nence  has  got  the  murderer  and  must  be  able  to  guess 
better  than  I  what  were  the  incentives  to  the  crime." 

"  That  does  not  follow,  my  friend.  A  man  who  con 
fesses  a  misdeed  is  not  bound  to  incriminate  any  one 
else,  and  a  man  whose  conscience  is  sensitive  enough  to 
make  him  surrender  himself  naturally  assumes  the  blame. 
He  suffers  remorse,  and  does  not  attempt  any  defence, 


344  SANT'  ILARIO. 

excepting  such  as  you  yourself  just  now  gave  me,  when 
you  said  that  the  prince  had  insulted  you.  Enough  to 
give  a  semblance  of  truth  to  the  story.  By  the  bye,  is 
that  true?" 

"It  is  and  it  is  not,"  answered  Gouache,  blushing  a 
little.  "  The  poor  man,  when  I  began  to  explain  my  posi 
tion,  thought  —  how  shall  I  say?  He  thought  I  wanted 
to  sell  him  a  picture.  It  was  not  his  fault." 

"  Poor  man !  "  sighed  the  cardinal.  "  He  had  not  much 
tact.  And  so,  Monsieur  Gouache,  you  think  that  the 
great  Saracinesca  suit  has  had  nothing  to  do  with  the 
murder?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  impossible.  It  looks  rather  as  though 
he  had  been  murdered  by  a  servant,  out  of  spite.  It  is 
hard  to  believe  that  any  one  not  belonging  to  the  house 
could  have  done  it." 

"  I  think  the  public  will  agree  with  you.  I  will  occupy 
myself  with  the  matter.  Perhaps  I  have  got  the  man 
safe  in  that  room,  but  who  knows?  If  you  had  come 
first,  you  might  have  gone  to  the  Carceri  Nuove  instead 
of  him.  After  all,  he  may  be  in  love  too." 

The  cardinal  smiled,  but  Gouache  started  at  the  sugges 
tion,  as  though  it  hurt  him. 

"I  doubt  that,"  he  said  quickly. 

"  So  do  I.  It  would  be  a  strange  coincidence,  if  two 
innocent  men  had  accused  themselves  of  the  same  crime, 
out  of  love,  within  twenty-four  hours  of  its  being  com 
mitted.  But  now  that  you  are  calm  —  yes,  you  were 
beside  yourself  with  excitement  —  I  must  tell  you  that 
you  have  done  a  very  rash  thing  indeed.  If  I  had  not 
chanced  to  be  a  friend  of  yours,  what  would  have  become 
of  you?  I  cannot  help  liking  your  courage  and  devotion 
—  you  have  shown  it  in  sterner  matters,  and  in  the  face 
of  the  enemy  —  but  you  might  have  destroyed  yourself. 
That  would  have  been  a  great  sin." 

"  Is  there  no  case  in  which  a  man  may  destroy  himself 
deliberately?  " 

"You  speak  of  suicide?  It  was  almost  that  you  con 
templated.  No.  The  church  teaches  that  a  man  who 
takes  his  own  life  goes  straight  to  hell.  So  does  Moham 
med,  for  that  matter." 

"In  any  case?" 


SANT'  ILARIO.  345 

"In  any  case.     It  is  a  mortal  sin." 

"  But, "  objected  Gouache,  "  let  us  suppose  me  a  very 
bad  man,  exercising  a  destroying  influence  on  many 
other  people.  Suppose,  in  short,  for  the  sake  of  argu 
ment,  that  my  life  caused  others  to  lose  their  own  souls, 
and  that  by  killing  myself  I  knew  that  they  would  all 
become  good  again.  Suppose  then,  that  I  suddenly  re 
pented  and  that  there  was  no  way  of  saving  these  people 
but  by  my  own  suicide.  Would  it  not  be  more  honoura 
ble  in  me  to  say,  'Very  well,  I  will  submit  to  damnation 
rather  than  send  all  those  others  to  eternal  flames?' 
Should  I  not  be  justified  in  blowing  out  my  brains?" 

The  cardinal  did  not  know  whether  to  smile  or  to  look 
grave.  He  was  neither  a  priest  nor  a  theologian,  but  a 
statesman. 

" My  dear  friend, "  he  answered  at  last.  "The  inge 
nuity  of  your  suppositions  passes  belief.  I  can  only  say 
that,  when  you  find  yourself  in  such  a  bad  case  as  you 
describe,  I  will  submit  the  matter  for  you  to  the  Holy 
Father  himself.  But  I  would  strongly  advise  you  to 
avoid  the  situation  if  you  possibly  can." 

Gouache  took  his  leave  with  a  light  heart,  little  guess 
ing  as  he  descended  the  great  marble  staircase  that  Gio 
vanni  Saracinesca  was  the  prisoner  of  whom  the  cardinal 
had  spoken  so  mysteriously,  still  less  that  he,  too,  had 
falsely  accused  himself  of  having  killed  poor  old  Monte- 
varchi.  He  wondered,  as  he  walked  rapidly  along  the 
streets  in  the  bright  morning  sunshine,  who  the  man  was, 
and  why  he  had  done  such  a  thing,  but  his  thoughts  were 
really  with  Faustina,  and  he  longed  to  see  her  and  to  hear 
from  her  own  lips  the  true  version  of  what  had  hap 
pened. 


CHAPTER   XXIV. 

Arnoldo  Meschini  was  fully  conscious  of  what  he  had 
done  when  he  softly  closed  the  door  of  the  study  behind 
him  and  returned  to  the  library ;  but  although  he  knew 
and  realised  that  he  had  murdered  his  employer,  he  could 


346  SANT'  ILARIO. 

not  explain  the  act  to  himself.  His  temples  throbbed 
painfully  and  there  was  a  bright  red  spot  in  each  of  his 
sallow  cheeks.  He  shuffled  about  from  one  bookcase  to 
another,  and  his  hands  trembled  violently  as  he  touched 
the  big  volumes.  Now  and  then  he  glanced  towards  one 
or  the  other  of  the  doors  expecting  at  every  moment  that 
some  one  would  enter  to  tell  him  the  news,  if  indeed  any 
one  at  such  a  time  should  chance  to  remember  the  exist 
ence  of  the  humble  librarian.  His  brain  was  on  fire 
and  seemed  to  burn  the  sockets  of  his  eyes.  And  yet  the 
time  passed,  and  no  one  came.  The  suspense  grew  to  be 
unbearable,  and  he  felt  that  he  would  do  anything  to  es 
cape  from  it.  He  went  to  the  door  and  laid  his  hand 
upon  the  latch. 

For  an  instant  the  flush  disappeared  from  his  cheeks, 
as  a  great  fear  took  possession  of  him.  He  was  not  able 
to  face  the  sight  of  Montevarchi's  body  lying  across  that 
table  in  the  silent  study.  His  hand  fell  to  his  side  and 
he  almost  ran  to  the  other  side  of  the  library;  then,  as 
though  ashamed  of  his  weakness  he  came  back  slowly 
and  listened  at  the  door.  It  was  scarcely  possible  that 
any  distant  echo  could  reach  his  ears,  if  the  household 
had  been  already  roused,  for  the  passage  was  long  and 
tortuous,  interrupted  by  other  doors  and  by  a  winding 
staircase.  But  in  his  present  state  he  fancied  that  his 
senses  must  be  preternaturally  sharpened  and  he  listened 
eagerly.  All  was  still.  He  went  back  to  the  books. 

There  was  nothing  to  be  done  but  to  make  a  desperate 
effort  to  occupy  himself  and  to  steady  his  nerves.  If  any 
one  came  now,  he  thought,  his  face  would  betray  him. 
There  must  be  a  light  in  his  eyes,  an  uncertainty  in  his 
manner  which  would  speak  plainly  enough  to  his  guilt. 
He  tried  to  imagine  what  would  take  place  when  the  body 
was  found.  Some  one  would  enter  the  room  and  would 
see  the  body.  He,  or  she,  would  perhaps  think  that  the 
prince  was  in  a  fit,  or  asleep  —  who  could  tell?  But  he 
would  not  answer  the  voice  that  called  him.  Then  the 
person  would  come  forward  and  touch  him  —  Meschini 
forced  himself  to  think  of  it  —  would  touch  the  dead  hand 
and  would  feel  that  it  was  cold.  With  a  cry  of  horror 
the  person  would  hasten  from  the  room.  He  might  hear 
that  cry,  if  he  left  the  door  open.  Again  he  laid  his 


SANT'  ILARIO.  347 

hand  upon  the  latch.  His  fingers  seemed  paralysed  and 
the  cold  sweat  stood  on  his  face,  but  he  succeeded  in 
mastering  himself  enough  to  turn  the  handle  and  look 
out.  The  cry  came,  but  it  was  from  his  own  lips.  He 
reeled  back  from  the  entrance  in  horror,  his  eyes  starting 
from  his  head.  There  stood  the  dead  man,  in  the  dusky 
passage,  shaking  at  him  the  handkerchief. 

It  was  only  his  fancy.  He  passed  his  hand  across  his 
forehead  and  a  sickly  look  of  relief  crept  over  his  face. 
He  had  been  frightened  by  his  own  coat,  that  hung  on  a 
peg  outside,  long  and  thin  and  limp,  a  white  handker 
chief  depending  from  the  wide  pocket.  There  was  not 
much  light  in  the  corridor.  He  crept  cautiously  out  and 
took  the  garment  from  its  place  with  a  nervous,  fright 
ened  gesture.  Dragging  it  after  him,  he  hastily  re-en 
tered  the  library  and  rolled  up  the  coat  into  a  shape  that 
could  not  possibly  resemble  anything  which  might 
frighten  him.  He  laid  it  upon  the  table  in  the  brightest 
place,  where  the  afternoon  sun  fell  upon  it.  There  was 
a  sort  of  relief  in  making  sure  that  the  thing  could  not 
again  look  like  the  dead  man.  He  looked  up  and  saw 
with  renewed  terror  that  he  had  left  the  door  open. 
There  was  nothing  but  air  between  him  and  the  place 
where  that  awful  shadow  had  been  conjured  up  by  his 
imagination.  The  door  must  be  shut.  If  it  remained 
open  he  should  go  mad.  He  tried  to  think  calmly,  but 
it  was  beyond  his  power.  He  attempted  to  say  that  there 
was  nothing  there  and  that  the  door  might  as  well  remain 
open  as  be  shut.  But  even,  while  making  the  effort  to 
reason  with  himself,  he  was  creeping  cautiously  along  the 
wall,  in  the  direction  of  the  entrance.  By  keeping  his 
eyes  close  to  the  wooden  panelling  he  could  advance 
without  seeing  into  the  corridor.  He  was  within  a  foot  of 
the  opening.  Convulsed  with  fear,  he  put  out  his  hand 
quickly  and  tried  to  pull  the  heavy  oak  on  its  hinges  by 
the  projecting  bevel,  but  it  was  too  heavy  —  he  must  look 
out  in  order  to  grasp  the  handle.  The  cold  drops  trickled 
down  from  his  brow  and  he  breathed  hard,  but  he  could 
not  go  back  a,nd  leave  the  door  unclosed.  With  a  sup 
pressed  sob  of  agony  he  thrust  out  his  head  and  arm.  In 
a  moment  it  was  over,  but  the  moral  effort  had  been  ter 
rible,  and  his  strength  failed  him,  so  that  he  staggered 


348  SANT'  ILARIO. 

against  the  wainscot  and  would  have  fallen  but  for  its 
support. 

Some  moments  elapsed  before  he  could  get  to  a  chair, 
and  when  he  at  last  sat  down  in  a  ray  of  sunshine  to  rest, 
his  eyes  remained  fixed  upon  the  sculptured  brass  handle 
of  the  latch.  He  almost  expected  that  it  would  turn  mys 
teriously  of  itself  and  that  the  dead  prince  would  enter 
the  room.  He  realised  that  in  his  present  condition  he 
could  not  possibly  face  the  person  who  before  long  would 
certainly  bring  him  the  news.  He  must  have  something 
to  stimulate  him  and  deaden  his  nerves.  He  had  no  idea 
how  long  a  time  had  elapsed  since  he  had  done  the  deed, 
but  it  seemed  that  three  or  four  hours  must  certainly 
have  passed.  In  reality  it  was  scarcely  five  and  twenty 
minutes  since  he  had  left  the  study.  He  remembered 
suddenly  that  he  had  some  spirits  in  his  room  at  the  top 
of  the  palace.  Slowly  and  painfully  he  rose  to  his  feet 
and  went  towards  the  other  exit  from  the  library,  which, 
as  in  many  ancient  houses,  opened  upon  the  grand  stair 
case,  so  as  to  give  free  access  to  visitors  from  without. 
He  had  to  cross  the  broad  marble  landing,  whence  a 
masked  door  led  to  the  narrow  winding  steps  by  which 
he  ascended  to  the  upper  story.  He  listened  to  hear 
whether  any  one  was  passing,  and  then  went  out.  Once 
on  his  way  he  moved  more  quickly  than  seemed  possible 
for  a  man  so  bent  and  mis-shapen. 

The  bright  afternoon  sun  streamed  in  through  the 
window  of  his  little  chamber,  a  relief  from  the  sombre 
gloominess  of  the  lofty  library,  where  the  straggling  rays 
seemed  to  make  the  great  hall  more  shadowy  by  contrast. 
But  Meschini  did  not  stop  to  look  about  him.  In  a  closet 
in  the  wall  he  kept  his  stores,  his  chemicals,  his  care 
fully-composed  inks,  his  bits  of  prepared  parchment,  and, 
together  with  many  other  articles  belonging  to  his  illicit 
business,  he  had  a  bottle  of  old  brandy,  which  the  butler 
had  once  given  him  out  of  the  prince's  cellar,  in  return 
for  a  bit  of  legal  advice  which  had  saved  the  servant  a 
lawyer's  fee.  Arnoldo  Meschini  had  always  been  a  sober 
man,  like  most  Italians,  and  the  bottle  had  stood  for 
years  unopened  in  the  cupboard.  He  had  never  thought 
of  it,  but,  having  been  once  placed  there,  it  had  been 
safe.  The  moment  had  come  when  the  stimulant  was 


SANT'  ILARIO.  349 

precious.  His  fingers  shook  as  he  put  the  bottle  to  his 
lips ;  when  he  set  it  down  they  were  steady.  The  liquor 
acted  like  an  enchantment,  and  the  sallow-faced  man 
smiled  as  he  sat  alone  by  his  little  table  and  looked  at 
the  thing  that  had  restored  him.  The  bottle  had  been 
full  when  he  began  to  drink;  the  level  of  the  liquid  was 
now  a  good  hand's  breadth  below  the  neck.  The  quan 
tity  he  had  swallowed  would  have  made  a  temperate 
man,  in  his  normal  state,  almost  half  drunk. 

He  sat  still  for  a  long  time,  waiting  to  see  whether  the 
draught  would  produce  any  other  effect.  He  felt  a  pleas 
ant  warmth  in  his  face  and  hands,  the  perspiration  had 
disappeared  from  his  brow,  and  he  was  conscious  that  he 
could  now  look  out  of  the  open  door  of  the  library  with 
out  fear,  even  if  his  coat  were  hanging  on  the  peg.  It 
was  incredible  to  him  that  he  should  have  been  so  really 
terrified  by  a  mere  shadow.  He  had  killed  Prince  Mon- 
tevarchi,  and  the  body  was  lying  in  the  study.  Yes,  he 
could  think  of  it  without  shuddering,  almost  without  an 
unpleasant  sensation.  In  the  dead  man's  own  words,  it 
had  been  an  act  of  divine  justice  and  retribution,  and 
since  nobody  could  possibly  discover  the  murderer,  there 
was  matter  for  satisfaction  in  the  idea  that  the  wicked 
old  man  no  longer  cumbered  the  earth  with  his  presence. 
Strange,  that  he  should  have  suffered  such  an  agony  of 
fear  half  an  hour  earlier.  Was  it  half  an  hour?  How 
pleasantly  the  sun  shone  in  to  the  little  room  where  he 
had  laboured  during  so  many  years,  and  so  profitably! 
Now  that  the  prince  was  dead  it  would  be  amusing  to  look 
at  those  original  documents  for  which  he  had  made  such 
skilfully-constructed  substitutes.  He  would  like  to  as 
sure  himself,  however,  that  the  deed  had  been  well  done. 
There  was  magic  in  that  old  liquor.  Another  little 
draught  and  he  would  go  down  to  the  study  as  though 
nothing  had  happened.  If  he  should  meet  anybody  his 
easy  manner  would  disarm  suspicion.  Besides,  he  could 
take  the  bottle  with  him  in  the  pocket  of  his  long  coat  — 
the  bottle  of  courage,  he  said  to  himself  with  a  smile,  as 
he  set  it  to  his  lips.  This  time  he  drank  but  little,  and 
very  slowly.  He  was  too  cautious  a  man  to  throw  away 
his  ammunition  uselessly. 

With  a  light  heart  he  descended  the  winding  stair  and 


350  SANT'  ILARIO. 

crossed  the  landing.  One  of  Ascanio  Bellegra's  servants 
passed  at  that  moment.  Meschini  looked  at  the  fellow 
quietly,  and  even  gave  him  a  friendly  smile,  to  test  his 
own  coolness,  a  civility  which  was  acknowledged  by  a 
familiar  nod.  The  librarian's  spirits  rose.  He  did  not 
resent  the  familiarity  of  the  footman,  for,  with  all  his 
learning,  he  was  little  more  than  a  servant  himself,  and 
the  accident  had  come  conveniently  as  a  trial  of  his 
strength.  The  man  evidently  saw  nothing  unusual  in 
his  appearance.  Moreover,  as  he  walked,  the  brandy 
bottle  in  his  coat-tail  pocket  beat  reassuringly  against 
the  calves  of  his  legs.  He  opened  the  door  of  the  library 
and  found  himself  in  the  scene  of  his  terror. 

There  lay  the  old  coat,  wrapped  together  on  the  table, 
as  he  had  left  it.  The  sun  had  moved  a  little  farther 
during  his  absence,  and  the  heap  of  cloth  looked  inno 
cent  enough.  Meschini  could  not  understand  how  it  had 
frightened  him  so  terribly.  He  still  felt  that  pleasant 
warmth  about  his  face  and  hands.  That  was  the  door 
before  which  he  had  been  such  a  coward.  What  was  be 
yond  it?  The  empty  passage.  He  would  go  and  hang 
the  coat  where  it  had  hung  always,  where  he  always  left 
it  when  he  came  in  the  morning,  unless  he  needed  it  to 
keep  himself  warm.  What  could  be  simpler,  or  easier? 
He  took  the  thing  in  one  hand,  turned  the  handle  and 
looked  out.  He  was  not  afraid.  The  long,  silent  corri 
dor  stretched  away  into  the  distance,  lighted  at  intervals 
by  narrow  windows  that  opened  upon  an  inner  court  of 
the  palace.  Meschini  suspended  the  coat  upon  the  peg 
and  stood  looking  before  him,  a  contemptuous  smile  upon 
his  face,  as  though  he  despised  himself  for  his  former 
fears.  Then  he  resolutely  walked  towards  the  study, 
along  the  familiar  way,  down  a  flight  of  steps,  then  to 
the  right  —  he  stood  before  the  door  and  the  dead  man 
was  on  the  other  side  of  it.  He  paused  and  listened. 
All  was  silent. 

It  was  clear  to  him,  as  he  stood  before  the  table  and 
looked  at  the  body,  that  no  one  had  been  there.  Indeed, 
Meschini  now  remembered  that  it  was  a  rule  in  the  house 
never  to  disturb  the  prince  unless  a  visitor  came.  He 
had  always  liked  to  spend  the  afternoon  in  solitude  over 
his  accounts  and  his  plans.  The  librarian  paused  oppo- 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  351 

site  his  victim  and  gazed  at  the  fallen  head  and  the 
twisted,  whitened  fingers.  He  put  out  his  hand  timidly 
and  touched  them,  and  was  surprised  to  find  that  they 
were  not  quite  cold.  The  touch,  however,  sent  a  very 
unpleasant  thrill  through  his  own  frame,  and  he  drew 
back  quickly  with  a  slight  shiver.  But  he  was  not 
terrified  as  he  had  btfen  before.  The  touch,  only,  was 
disagreeable  to  him.  He  took  a  book  that  lay  at  hand 
and  pushed  it  against  the  dead  man's  arm.  There  was 
no  sign,  no  movement.  He  would  have  liked  to  go 
behind  the  chair  and  untie  the  handkerchief,  but  his 
courage  was  not  quite  equal  to  that.  Besides,  the  hand 
kerchief  was  Faustina's.  He  had  seen  her  father  snatch 
it  from  her  and  throw  it  upon  the  floor,  as  he  watched 
the  pair  through  the  keyhole.  A  strange  fascination 
kept  him  in  the  study,  and  he  would  have  yielded  to  it 
had  he  not  been  fortified  against  any  such  morbid  folly 
by  the  brandy  he  had  swallowed.  He  thought,  as  he 
turned  to  go,  that  it  was  a  pity  the  prince  never  kept 
money  in  the  house,  for,  in  that  case,  he  might  have 
helped  himself  before  leaving.  To  steal  a  small  value 
was  not  worth  while,  considering  the  danger  of  discov 
ery. 

He  moved  on  tiptoe,  as  though  afraid  of  disturbing 
the  rest  of  his  old  employer,  and  once  or  twice  he  looked 
back.  Then  at  last  he  closed  the  door  and  retraced  his 
steps  through  the  corridor  till  he  gained  the  library.  He 
was  surprised  at  his  own  boldness  as  he  went,  and  at 
the  indifference  with  which  he  passed  by  the  coat  that 
hung,  limp  as  ever,  upon  its  peg.  He  was  satisfied,  too, 
with  the  result  of  his  investigations.  The  prince  was 
certainly  dead.  As  a  direct  consequence  of  his  death, 
the  secret  of  the  Saracinesca  suit  was  now  his  own;  no 
one  had  a  share  in  it,  and  it  was  worth  money.  He 
pulled  out  a  number  of  volumes  from  the  shelves  and 
began  to  make  a  pretence  of  working  upon  the  catalogue. 
But  though  he  surrounded  himself  with  the  implements 
and  necessaries  for  his  task,  his  mind  was  busy  with  the 
new  scheme  that  unfolded  itself  to  his  imagination. 

He  and  he  alone,  knew  that  San  Giacinto's  possession 
of  the  Saracinesca  inheritance  rested  upon  a  forgery. 
The  fact  that  this  forgery  must  be  revealed,  in  order  to 


352  SANT'  ILARIO. 

reinstate  the  lawful  possessors  in  their  right,  did  not 
detract  in  the  least  from  the  value  of  the  secret.  Two 
courses  were  open  to  him.  He  might  go  to  old  Leone 
Saracinesca  and  offer  the  original  documents  for  sale,  on 
receiving  a  guarantee  for  his  own  safety.  Or  he  might 
offer  them  to  San  Giacinto,  who  was  the  person  endan 
gered  by  their  existence.  Monbevarchi  had  promised 
him  twenty  thousand  scudi  for  the  job,  and  had  never 
paid  the  money.  He  had  cancelled  his  debt  with  his 
life,  however,  and  had  left  the  secret  behind  him.  Either 
Saracinesca  or  San  Giacinto  would  give  five  times  twenty 
thousand,  ten  times  as  much,  perhaps,  for  the  original 
documents,  the  one  in  order  to  recover  what  was  his 
own,  the  other  to  keep  what  did  not  belong  to  him.  The 
great  question  to  be  considered  was  the  way  of  making 
the  offer.  Meschini  sat  staring  at  the  opposite  row  of 
books,  engaged  in  solving  the  problem.  Just  then,  one 
of  the  open  volumes  before  him  slipped  a  little  upon 
another  and  the  page  turned  slowly  over.  The  librarian 
started  slightly  and  glanced  at  the  old-fashioned  type. 
Th'e  work  was  a  rare  one,  which  he  had  often  examined, 
and  he  knew  it  to  be  of  great  value.  A  new  thought 
struck  him.  Why  should  he  not  sell  this  and  many 
other  volumes  out  of  the  collection,  as  well  as  realise 
money  by  disposing  of  his  secret?  He  might  as  well  be 
rich  as  possess  a  mere  competence. 

He  looked  about  him.  With  a  little  care  and  inge 
nuity,  by  working  at  night  and  by  visiting  the  sellers  of 
old  books  during  the  day  he  might  soon  put  together 
four  or  five  hundred  works  which  would  fetch  a  high 
price,  and  replace  them  by  so  many  feet  of  old  trash 
which  would  look  as  well.  With  his  enormous  industry 
it  would  be  a  simple  matter  to  tamper  with  the  cata 
logue  and  to  insert  new  pages  which  should  correspond 
with  the  changes  he  contemplated.  The  old  prince  was 
dead,  and  little  as  he  had  really  known  about  the  library, 
his  sons  knew  even  less.  Meschini  could  remove  the 
stolen  volumes  to  a  safe  place,  and  when  he  had  realised 
the  value  of  his  secret,  he  would  go  to  Paris,  to  Berlin, 
even  to  London,  and  dispose  of  his  treasures  one  by  one. 
He  was  amazed  at  the  delights  the  future  unfolded  to 
him,  everything  seemed  gilded,  everything  seemed  ready 


SANT'  ILARIO.  353 

to  turn  into  gold.  His  brain  dwelt  with  an  enthusiasm 
wholly  new  to  him  upon  the  dreams  it  conjured  up.  He 
felt  twenty  years  younger.  His  fears  had  gone,  and  with 
them  his  humility.  He  saw  himself  no  longer  the  poor 
librarian  in  his  slippers  and  shabby  clothes,  cringing  to 
his  employer,  spending  his  days  in  studying  the  forgeries 
he  afterwards  executed  during  the  night,  hoarding  his 
ill-gotten  gains  with  jealous  secrecy,  afraid  to  show  to 
his  few  associates  that  he  had  accumulated  a  little  wealth, 
timid  by  force  of  long  habit  and  by  the  remembrance  of 
the  shame  in  his  early  life.  All  that  had  disappeared 
under  the  potent  spell  of  his  new-found  courage.  He 
fancied  himself  living  in  some  distant  capital,  rich  and 
respected,  married,  perhaps,  having  servants  of  his  own, 
astonishing  the  learned  men  of  some  great  centre  by  the 
extent  of  his  knowledge  and  erudition.  All  the  vanity 
of  his  nature  was  roused  from  its  long  sleep  by  a  new  set 
of  emotions,  till  he  could  scarcely  contain  his  inexplica 
ble  happiness.  And  how  had  all  this  come  to  him  so 
suddenly  in  the  midst  of  his  obscure  life?  Simply  by 
squeezing  the  breath  out  of  an  old  man's  throat.  How 
easy  it  had  been. 

The  unaccustomed  energy  which  had  been  awakened 
in  him  by  the  spirits  brought  with  it  a  pleasant  restless 
ness.  He  felt  that  he  must  go  again  to  his  little  room 
upstairs,  and  take  out  the  deeds  and  read  them  over. 
The  sight  of  them  would  give  an  increased  reality  and 
vividness  to  his  anticipations.  Besides,  too,  it  was  just 
barely  possible  that  there  might  be  some  word,  some 
expression  which  he  could  change,  and  which  should 
increase  their  value.  To  sit  still,  poring  over  the  cata 
logue  in  the  library  was  impossible.  Once  more  he 
climbed  to  his  attic,  but  he  could  not  comprehend  why 
he  felt  a  nervous  desire  to  look  behind  him,  as  though 
he  were  followed  by  some  person  whose  tread  was  noise 
less.  It  was  not  possible,  he  thought,  that  the  effects  of 
his  draught  were  already  passing  off.  Such  courage  as 
he  felt  in  him  could  not  leave  him  suddenly.  He  reached 
his  room  and  took  the  deeds  from  the  secret  place  in 
which  he  had  hidden  them,  spreading  them  out  lovingly 
before  him.  As  he  sat  down  the  bottle  in  his  long  coat 
touched  the  floor,  behind  him  with  a  short,  dull  thud. 

Y 


354  SANT'  ILARIO. 

It  was  as  though  a  footstep  had  sounded  in  the  silent 
room,  and  he  sprang  to  his  feet  before  he  realised  whence 
the  noise  came,  looking  behind  him  with  startled  eyes. 
In  a  moment  he  understood,  and  withdrawing  the  bottle 
from  his  pocket  he  set  it  beside  him  on  the  table.  He 
looked  at  it  for  a  few  seconds  as  though  in  hesitation, 
but  he  determined  not  to  have  recourse  to  its  contents  so 
soon.  He  had  undoubtedly  been  frightened  again,  but 
the  sound  that  had  scared  him  had  been  real  and  not 
imaginary.  Besides,  he  had  but  this  one  bottle  and  he 
knew  that  good  brandy  was  dear.  He  pushed  it  away, 
his  avarice  helping  him  to  resist  the  temptation. 

The  old  documents  were  agreeably  familiar  to  his  eye, 
and  he  read  and  re-read  them  with  increasing  satisfaction, 
comparing  them  carefully,  and  chuckling  to  himself  each 
time  that  he  reached  the  bottom  of  the  sheet  upon  the 
copy,  where  there  had  been  no  room  to  introduce  that 
famous  clause.  But  for  that  accident,  he  reflected,  he 
would  have  undoubtedly  made  the  insertion  upon  the 
originals,  and  the  latter  would  be  now  no  longer  in  his 
possession.  He  did  not  quite  understand  why  he  derived 
such  pleasure  from  reading  the  writing  so  often,  nor  why, 
when  the  surrounding  objects  in  the  room  were  clear  and 
distinct  to  his  eyes,  the  crabbed  characters  should  every 
now  and  then  seem  to  move  of  themselves  and  to  run 
into  each  other  from  right  to  left.  Possibly  the  emotions 
of  the  day  had  strained  his  vision.  He  looked  up  and 
saw  the  bottle.  An  irresistible  desire  seized  him  to 
taste  the  liquor  again,  even  if  he  drank  but  a  drop.  The 
spirits  wet  his  lips  while  he  was  still  inwardly  debating 
whether  it  were  wise  to  drink  or  not.  As  he  returned 
the  cork  to  its  place  he  felt  a  sudden  revival  within  him 
of  all  he  had  experienced  before.  His  face  was  warm, 
his  fingers  tingled.  He  took  up  one  of  the  deeds  with  a 
firm  hand  and  settled  himself  comfortably  in  his  chair. 
But  he  could  not  read  it  through  again.  He  laughed 
quietly  at  his  folly.  Did  he  not  know  every  word  by 
heart?  He  must  occupy  himself  with  planning,  with 
arranging  the  details  of  his  future.  When  that  was  done 
he  could  revel  in  the  thought  of  wealth  and  rest  and 
satisfied  vanity. 

To  his   surprise,   his  thoughts  did  •  not  flow  as  con- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  355 

nectedly  as  he  had  expected.  He  could  not  help  think 
ing  of  the  dead  man  downstairs,  not  indeed  with  any 
terror,  not  fearing  discovery  for  himself,  but  with  a 
vague  wonderment  that  made  his  mind  feel  empty. 
Turn  over  the  matter  as  he  would,  he  could  not  foresee 
connectedly  what  was  likely  to  happen  when  the  murder 
was  known.  There  was  no  sequence  in  his  imaginings, 
and  he  longed  nervously  for  the  moment  when  everything 
should  be  settled.  The  restlessness  that  had  brought 
him  up  to  his  room  demanded  some  sort  of  action  to 
quiet  it.  He  would  willingly  have  gone  out  to  see  his 
friend,  the  little  apothecary  who  lived  near  the  Ponte 
Quattro  Capi.  It  would  be  a  relief  to  talk  to  some  one, 
to  hear  the  sound  of  a  human  voice.  But  a  remnant  of 
prudence  restrained  him.  It  was  not  very  likely  that 
he  should  be  suspected;  indeed,  if  he  behaved  prudently 
nothing  was  more  improbable.  To  leave  the  house  at 
such  a  time,  however,  would  be  the  height  of  folly, 
unless  it  could  be  proved  that  he  had  gone  out  some  time 
before  the  deed  could  have  been  done.  The  porter  was 
vigilant,  and  Meschini  almost  always  exchanged  a  few 
words  with  him  as  he  passed  through  the  gates.  He 
would  certainly  note  the  time  of  the  librarian's  exit 
more  or  less  accurately.  Moreover,  the  body  might 
have  been  found  already,  and  even  now  the  gendarmes 
might  be  downstairs.  The  latter  consideration  deter 
mined  him  to  descend  once  more  to  the  library.  A  slight 
chill  passed  over  him  as  he  closed  the  door  of  his  room 
behind  him. 

The  great  hall  now  seemed  very  gloomy  and  cold,  and 
the  solitude  was  oppressive.  He  felt  the  necessity  for 
movement,  and  began  to  walk  quickly  up  and  down  the 
length  of  the  library  between  the  broad  tables,  from  one 
door  to  the  other.  At  first,  as  he  reached  the  one  that 
separated  him  from  the  passage  he  experienced  no  disa 
greeable  sensation,  but  turned  his  back  upon  it  at  the  end 
of  his  walk  and  retraced  his  steps.  Very  gradually,  how 
ever,  he  began  to  feel  uncomfortable  as  he  reached  that 
extremity  of  the  room,  and  the  vision  of  the  dead  prince 
rose  before  his  eyes.  The  coat  was  there  again,  on  the 
other  side  of  the  door.  No  doubt  it  would  take  the  same 
shape  again  if  he  looked  at  it.  His  varying  courage  was 


356  SANT*    ILARIO. 

just  at  the  point  when  he  was  able  to  look  out  in  order 
to  assure  himself  that  the  limp  garment  had  not  assumed 
the  appearance  of  a  ghost.  He  felt  a  painful  thrill  in 
his  back  as  he  turned  the  handle,  and  the  cold  air  that 
rushed  in  as  he  opened  the  door  seemed  to  come  from  a 
tomb.  Although  his  eyes  were  satisfied  when  he  had 
seen  the  coat  in  the  corner,  he  drew  back  quickly,  and 
the  thrill  was  repeated  with  greater  distinctness  JLS  he 
heard  the  bolt  of  the  latch  slip  into  its  socket.  He 
walked  away  again,  but  the  next  time  he  came  back  he 
turned  at  some  distance  from  the  threshold,  and,  as  he 
turned,  he  felt  the  thrill  a  third  time,  almost  like  an 
electric  shock.  He  could  not  bear  it  and  sat  down  before 
the  catalogue.  His  eyes  refused  to  read,  and  after  a 
lengthened  struggle  between  his  fears,  his  prudence  and 
his  economy,  he  once  more  drew  the  bottle  from  his  pocket 
and  fortified  himself  with  a  draught.  This  time  he  drank 
more,  and  the  effect  was  different.  For  some  seconds  he 
felt  no  change  in  his  condition.  Presently,  however,  his 
nervousness  disappeared,  giving  place  now  to  a  sort  of 
stupid  indifference.  The  light  was  fading  from  the  clere 
story  windows  of  the  library,  and,  within,  the  corners  and 
recesses  were  already  dark.  But  Meschini  was  past  imag 
ining  ghosts  or  apparitions.  He  sat  quite  still,  his  chin 
leaning  on  his  hand  and  his  elbow  on  the  table,  wondering 
vaguely  how  long  it  would  be  before  they  came  to  tell 
him  that  the  prince  was  dead.  He  did  not  sleep,  but  he 
fell  into  a  state  of  torpor  which  was  restful  to  his  nerves. 
Sleep  would  certainly  come  in  half  an  hour  if  he  were 
left  to  himself  as  long  as  that.  His  breathing  was 
heavy,  and  the  silence  around  him  was  intense.  At  last 
the  much-dreaded  moment  came,  and  found  him  dull  and 
apathetic. 

The  door  opened  and  a  ray  of  light  from  a  candle 
entered  the  room,  which  was  now  almost  dark.  A  foot 
man  and  a  housemaid  thrust  in  their  heads  cautiously 
and  peered  into  the  broad  gloom,  holding  the  candle  high 
before  them.  Either  would  have  been  afraid  to  come 
alone. 

"Sor  Arnoldo,  Sor  Arnoldo!"  the  man  called  out 
timidly,  as  though  frightened  by  the  sound  of  his  own 
voice. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  357 

"  Here  I  am, "  answered  Meschini,  affecting  a  cheerful 
tone  as  well  as  he  could.  Once  more  and  very  quickly 
he  took  a  mouthful  from  the  bottle,  behind  the  table 
where  they  could  not  see  him.  "What  is  the  matter?" 
he  asked. 

"  The  prince  is  murdered ! "  cried  the  two  servants,  in 
a  breath.  They  were  very  pale  as  they  came  towards 
him. 

If  the  cry  he  uttered  was  forced  they  were  too  much 
terrified  to  notice  it.  As  they  told  their  tale  with  every 
species  of  exaggeration,  interspersed  with  expressions  of 
horror  and  amazement,  he  struck  his  hands  to  his  head, 
moaned,  cried  aloud,  and,  being  half  hysterical  with 
drink,  shed  real  tears  in  their  presence.  Then  they  led 
him  away,  saying  that  the  prefect  of  police  was  in  the 
study  and  that  all  the  household  had  been  summoned  to 
be  examined  by  him.  He  was  now  launched  in  his  part, 
and  could  play  it  to  the  end  without  breaking  down.  He 
had  afterwards  very  little  recollection  of  what  had 
occurred.  He  remembered  that  the  stillness  of  the  study 
and  the  white  faces  of  those  present  had  impressed  him 
by  contrast  with  the  noisy  grief  of  the  servants  who  had 
summoned  him.  He  remembered  that  he  had  sworn, 
and  others  had  corroborated  his  oath,  to  the  effect  that 
he  had  spent  the  afternoon  between  the  library  and  his 
room.  Ascanio  Bellegra's  footman  remembered  meeting 
him  on  the  landing,  and  said  that  he  had  smiled  pleasantly 
in  an  unconcerned  way,  as  usual,  and  had  passed  on. 
For  the  rest,  no  one  seemed  even  to  imagine  that  he 
could  have  done  the  deed,  for  no  one  had  ever  heard  any 
thing  but  friendly  words  between  him  and  the  prince. 
He  remembered,  too,  having  seen  the  dead  body  extended 
upon  the  great  table  of  the  study,  and  he  recalled  Donna 
Faustina's  tone  of  voice  indistinctly  as  in  a  dream. 
Then,  before  the  prefect  announced  his  decision,  he  was 
dismissed  with  the  other  servants. 

After  that  moment  all  was  a  blank  in  his  mind.  In 
reality  he  returned  to  his  room  and  sat  down  by  his  table 
with  a  candle  before  him.  He  never  knew  that  after  the 
examination  he  had  begged  another  bottle  of  liquor  of 
the  butler  on  the  ground  that  his  nerves  were  upset  by 
the  terrible  event.  About  midnight  the  candle  burned 


358  SANT'  ILARIO. 

down  into  the  socket.  Profiting  by  the  last  ray  of  light 
he  drank  a  final  draught  and  reeled  to  his  bed,  dressed 
as  he  was.  One  bottle  was  empty,  and  a  third  of  the 
second  was  gone.  Arnoldo  Meschini  was  dead  drunk. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

Corona  was  not  much  surprised  when  the  messenger 
brought  her  carriage  and  presented  the  order  for  Faus 
tina's  liberation.  When  Giovanni  had  left  her  she  had 
felt  that  he  would  find  means  to  procure  the  young  girl's 
liberty,  and  the  only  thing  which  seemed  strange  to  her 
was  the  fact  that  Giovanni  did  not  return  himself.  The 
messenger  said  he  had  seen  him  with  the  cardinal  and 
that  Sant'  Ilario  had  given  the  order  to  use  the  carriage. 
Beyond  that,  he  knew  nothing.  Corona  at  once  took 
Faustina  to  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi,  and  then,  with  a 
promise  to  come  back  in  the  course  of  the  day,  she  went 
home  to  rest. 

She  needed  repose  even  more  than  Faustina,  who, 
after  all,  had  slept  soundly  on  her  prison  bed,  trusting 
with  childlike  faith  in  her  friend's  promise  that  she 
should  be  free  in  the  morning.  Corona,  on  the  contrary, 
had  passed  a  wakeful  night,  and  was  almost  worn  out 
with  fatigue.  She  remained  in  her  room  until  twelve 
o'clock,  the  hour  when  the  members  of  the  family  met 
at  the  midday  breakfast.  She  found  her  father-in-law 
waiting  for  her,  and  at  a  glance  she  saw  that  he  was  in  a 
savage  humour.  His  bronzed  face  was  paler  than  usual 
and  his  movements  more  sudden  and  nervous,  while  his 
dark  eyes  gleamed  angrily  beneath  his  bent  and  shaggy 
brows.  Corona,  on  her  part,  was  silent  and  preoccupied. 
In  spite  of  the  tragic  events  of  the  night,  which,  after 
all,  only  affected  her  indirectly  at  present,  and  in  spite 
of  the  constant  moral  suffering  which  now  played  so 
important  a  part  in  her  life,  she  could  not  but  be  dis 
turbed  by  the  tremendous  loss  sustained  by  her  husband 
and  by  his  father.  It  fell  most  heavily  upon  the  latter, 


SANT'  ILARIO.  359 

who  was  an  old  man,  and  whose  mind  was  not  engaged 
by  any  other  absorbing  consideration,  but  the  blow  was 
a  terrible  one  to  the  other  also. 

"Where  is  Giovanni?"  asked  Saracinesca  brusquely, 
as  they  sat  down  to  the  table. 

"  I  do  not  know, "  answered  Corona.  "  The  last  I  heard 
of  him  was  that  he  was  with  Cardinal  Antonelli.  I  sup 
pose  that  after  getting  the  order  to  release  Faustina  he 
stayed  there." 

"So  his  Eminence  suffered  himself  to  be  persuaded 
that  a  little  girl  did  not  strangle  that  old  sinner,"  re 
marked  the  prince. 

"Apparently." 

"  If  they  had  taken  Flavia  it  would  have  been  more 
natural.  She  would  have  inaugurated  her  reign  as  Prin 
cess  Saracinesca  by  a  night  in  the  Termini.  Delightful 
contrast!  I  suppose  you  know  who  did  it?" 

"  No.  Probably  a  servant,  though  they  say  that  noth 
ing  was  stolen." 

"  San  Giacinto  did  it.  I  have  thought  the  whole  mat 
ter  out,  and  I  am  convinced  of  it.  Look  at  his  hands.  He 
could  strangle  an  elephant.  Not  that  he  could  have  had 
any  particular  reason  for  liquidating  his  father-in-law. 
He  is  rich  enough  without  Flavia' s  share,  but  I  always 
thought  he  would  kill  somebody  one  of  these  days,  ever 
since  I  met  him  at  Aquila." 

"Without  any  reason,  why  should  he  have  done  it?" 

"  My  dear  child,  when  one  has  no  reason  to  give,  it  is 
very  hard  to  say  why  a  thing  occurs.  He  looks  like  the 
man." 

"  Is  it  conceivable  that  after  getting  all  he  could  desire 
he  should  endanger  his  happiness  in  such  a  way?" 

"  Perhaps  not.  I  believe  he  did  it.  What  an  abomina 
ble  omelet  —  a  glass  of  water,  Pasquale.  Abominable,  is 
it  not;  Corona?  Perfectly  uneatable.  I  suppose  the  cook 
has  heard  of  our  misfortunes  and  wants  to  leave." 

"  I  fancy  we  are  not  very  hungry, "  remarked  Corona, 
in  order  to  say  something. 

"  I  would  like  to  know  whether  the  murderer  is  eating 
his  breakfast  at  this  moment, and  whether  he  has  any  appe 
tite.  It  would  be  interesting  from  a  psychological  point 
of  view.  By  the  bye,  all  this  is  very  like  a,  jettatura." 


360  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"What?" 

"  Montevarchi  coming  to  his  end  on  the  very  day  he 
had  won  the  suit.  In  good  old  times  it  would  have  been 
Giovanni  who  would  have  cut  his  throat,  after  which  we 
should  have  all  retired  to  Saracinesca  and  prepared  for  a 
siege.  Less  civilised  but  twice  as  human.  ]STo  doubt 
they  will  say  now  —  even  now  —  that  we  paid  a  man  to 
do  the  work." 

"  But  it  was  San  Giacinto  who  brought  the  suit " 

"It  was  Montevarchi.  I  have  seen  my  lawyer  this 
morning.  He  says  that  Montevarchi  sent  the  people  out 
to  Frascati  to  see  San  Giacinto  and  explained  the  whole 
matter  to  them  beforehand.  He  discovered  the  clause  in 
the  deeds  first.  San  Giacinto  never  even  saw  them  until 
everything  was  ready.  And  on  the  evening  of  the  very 
day  when  it  was  settled,  Montevarchi  is  murdered.  I 
wonder  that  it  has  not  struck  any  one  to  say  we  did  it. " 

"  You  did  not  oppose  the  suit.  If  you  had,  it  would 
have  been  different." 

"How  could  I  oppose  the  action?  It  was  clear  from 
the  beginning  that  we  had  no  chance  of  winning  it.  The 
fact  remains  that  we  are  turned  out  of  our  home.  The 
sooner  we  leave  this  the  better.  It  will  only  be  harder 
to  go  if  we  stay  here." 

"Yes,"  answered  Corona  sadly.     "It  will  be  harder." 

"I  believe  it  is  a  judgment  of  heaven  on  Giovanni  for 
his  outrageous  conduct,"  growled  the  prince,  suddenly 
running  away  with  a  new  idea. 

"On  Giovanni?"  Corona  was  roused  immediately  by 
the  mention  of  her  husband  in  such  a  connection. 

"  Yes,  for  his  behaviour  to  you,  the  young  scoundrel ! 
I  ought  to  have  disinherited  him  at  once." 

"Please  do  not  talk  in  that  way.  I  cannot  let  you 
say " 

"  He  is  my  own  son,  and  I  will  say  what  I  please, " 
interrupted  Saracinesca  fiercely.  "He. treated  you  out 
rageously,  I  say.  It  is  just  like  a  woman  to  deny  it  and 
defend  her  husband." 

"  Since  there  is  no  one  else  to  defend  him,  I  must.  He 
was  misled,  and  naturally  enough,  considering  the  ap 
pearances.  I  did  not  know  that  you  knew  about  it  all." 

"  I  do  not  know  all,  nor  half.     But  I  know  enough.     A 


SANT'  ILARIO.  361 

man  who  suspects  such  a  woman  as  you  deserves  to  be 
hanged.  Besides,"  he  added  irrelevantly,  but  with  an 
intuitive  keenness  that  startled  Corona,  "besides,  you 
have  not  forgiven  him." 

"Indeed  I  have " 

"  In  a  Christian  spirit,  no  doubt.  I  know  you  are  good. 
But  you  do  not  love  him  as  you  did.  It  is  useless  to  deny 
it.  Why  should  you?  I  do  not  blame  you,  I  am  sure." 

The  prince  fixed  his  bright  eyes  on  her  face  and  waited 
for  her  answer.  She  turned  a  little  paler  and  said  nothing 
for  several  moments.  Then  as  he  watched  her  he  saw 
the  colour  mount  slowly  to  her  olive  cheeks.  She  herself 
could  hardly  have  accounted  for  the  unwonted  blush,  and 
a  man  capable  of  more  complicated  reasoning  than  her 
father-in-law  would  have  misinterpreted  it.  Corona  had 
at  first  been  angry  at  the  thought  that  he  could  speak  as 
he  did  of  Giovanni,  saying  things  she  would  not  say  to 
herself  concerning  him.  Then  she  felt  a  curious  sensation 
of  shame  at  being  discovered.  It  was  true  that  she  did 
not  love  her  husband,  or  at  least  that  she  believed  her 
self  unable  to  love  him;  but  she  was  ashamed  that  any 
one  else  should  know  it. 

"Why  will  you  persist  in  talking  about  the  matter?" 
she  asked  at  length.  "It  is  between  us  two." 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  it  concerns  me,"  returned  Saracin- 
esca,  who  was  naturally  pertinacious.  "I  am  not  in 
quisitive.  I  ask  no  questions.  Giovanni  has  said  very 
little  about  it  to  me.  But  I  am  not  blind.  He  came  to 
me  one  evening  and  said  he  was  going  to  take  you  away 
to  the  mountains.  He  seemed  very  much  disturbed,  and 
I  saw  that  there  had  been  trouble  between  you,  and  that 
he  suspected  you  of  something.  He  did  not  say  so,  but 
I  knew  what  he  meant.  If  it  had  turned  out  true  I  think 
I  would  have  —  well,  I  would  not  have  answered  for  my 
conduct.  Of  course  I  took  his  part,  but  you  fell  ill,  and 
did  not  know  that.  When  he  came  and  told  me  that  he 
had  been  mistaken  I  abused  him  like  a  thief.  I  have 
abused  him  ever  since  whenever  I  have  had  a  chance. 
It  was  a  vile,  dastardly,  foolish,  ridiculous " 

"For  heaven's  sake!"  cried  Corona,  interrupting  him. 
"  Pray,  pray  leave  the  question  in  peace !  I  am  so  un 
happy!" 


862  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"So  am  I,"  answered  Saracinesca  bluntly.  "It  does 
not  add  to  my  happiness  to  know  that  my  son  has  made 
an  ass  of  himself.  Worse  than  that.  You  do  not  seem 
to  realise  that  I  am  very  fond  of  you.  If  I  had  not  been 
such  an  old  man  I  should  have  fallen  in  love  with  you  as 
well  as  Giovanni.  Do  you  remember  when  I  rode  over 
to  Astrardente,  and  asked  you  to  marry  him?  I  would 
have  given  all  I  am  —  all  I  was  worth,  I  mean,  to  be  in 
Giovanni's  shoes  when  I  brought  back  your  answer. 
Bah !  I  am  an  old  fellow  and  no  Apollo  either!  But  you 
have  been  a  good  daughter  to  me,  Corona,  and  I  will  not 
let  any  one  behave  badly  to  you." 

"And  you  have  been  good  to  me  —  so  good!  But  you 
must  not  be  angry  with  Giovanni.  He  was  misled.  He 
loved  me  even  then." 

"I  wish  I  were  as  charitable  as  you." 

"Do  not  call  me  charitable.  I  am  anything  but  that. 
If  I  were  I  would "  She  stopped  short. 

"  Yes,  I  know,  you  would  love  him  as  you  did  before. 
Then  you  would  not  be  Corona,  but  some  one  else.  I 
know  that  sort  of  argument.  But  you  cannot  be  two 
persons  at  one  time.  The  other  woman,  whom  you  have 
got  in  your  mind,  and  who  would  love  Giovanni,  is  a 
weak-minded  kind  of  creature  who  bears  anything  and 
everything,  who  will  accept  any  sort  of  excuse  for  an  in 
sult,  and  will  take  credit  to  herself  for  being  long-suffer 
ing  because  she  has  not  the  spirit  to  be  justly  angry. 
Thank  heaven  you  are  not  like  that.  If  you  were,  Gio 
vanni  would  not  have  had  you  for  a  wife  nor  I  for  a 
daughter. " 

"  I  think  it  is  my  fault.  I  would  do  anything  in  the 
world  to  make  it  otherwise." 

"You  admit  the  fact  then?  Of  course.  It  is  a  misfor 
tune,  and  not  your  fault.  It  is  one  more  misfortune 
among  so  many.  You  may  forgive  him,  if  you  please. 
I  will  not.  By  the  bye,  I  wonder  why  he  does  not  come 
back.  I  would  like  to  hear  the  news." 

"The  cardinal  may  have  kept  him  to  breakfast." 

"  Since  seven  o'clock  this  morning?  That  is  impossi 
ble.  Unless  his  Eminence  has  arrested  him  on  charge 
of  the  murder. "  The  old  gentleman  laughed  gruffly,  little 
guessing  how  near  his  jest  lay  to  the  truth.  But  Corona 


SANT'  ILARIO.  363 

looked  up  quickly.  The  mere  idea  of  such  a  horrible 
contingency  was  painful  to  her,  absurd  and  wildly  im 
probable  as  it  appeared. 

"  I  was  going  to  ask  him  to  go  up  to  Saracinesca  to 
morrow  and  see  to  the  changes,"  continued  the  prince. 

"Must  it  be  so  soon?"  asked  Corona  regretfully.  "Is 
it  absolutely  decided?  Have  you  not  yielded  too  easily?  " 

"  I  cannot  go  over  all  the  arguments  again. "  returned 
her  father-in-law  with  some  impatience.  "  There  is  no 
doubt  about  it.  I  expended  all  my  coolness  and  civility 
on  San  Giacinto  when  he  came  to  see  me  about  it.  It  is  of 
no  use  to  complain,  and  we  cannot  draw  back.  I  suppose 
I  might  go  down  on  my  knees  to  the  Pope  and  ask  his 
Holiness  for  another  title  —  for  the  privilege  of  being 
called  something,  Principe  di  Cavolnore,  if  you  like. 
But  I  will  not  do  it.  I  will  die  as  Leone  Saracinesca. 
You  can  give  Giovanni  your  old  title,  if  you  please  —  it 
is  yours  to  give." 

"  He  shall  have  it  if  he  wants  it.  What  does  it  matter? 
I  can  be  Donna  Corona." 

"Ay,  what  does  it  matter,  provided  we  have  peace? 
What  does  anything  matter  in  this  unutterably  ridiculous 
world  —  except  your  happiness,  poor  child !  Yes.  Every 
thing  must  be  got  ready.  I  will  not  stay  in  this  house 
another  week. " 

"  But  in  a  week  it  will  be  impossible  to  do  all  there  is 
to  be  done!"  exclaimed  Corona,  whose  feminine  mind 
foresaw  infinite  difficulties  in  moving. 

"Possible,  or  impossible,  it  must  be  accomplished.  I 
have  appointed  this  day  week  for  handing  over  the  prop 
erty.  The  lawyers  said,  as  you  say,  that  it  would  need 
more  time.  I  told  them  that  there  was  no  time,  and  that 
if  they  could  not  do  it,  I  would  employ  some  one  else. 
They  talked  of  sitting  up  all  night  —  as  if  I  cared 
whether  they  lost  their  beauty  sleep  or  not!  A  week 
from  to-day  everything  must  be  settled,  so  that  I  have  not 
in  my  possession  a  penny  that  does  not  belong  to  me." 

"And  then  —  what  will  you  do?"  asked  Corona,  who 
saw  in  spite  of  his  vehemence  how  much  he  was  affected 
by  the  prospect. 

"And  then?  What  then?  Live  somewhere  else,  I 
suppose,  and  pray  for  an  easy  death." 


364  SANT'  ILARIO. 

No  one  had  ever  heard  Leone  Saracinesca  say  before 
now  that  he  desired  to  die,  and  the  wish  seemed  so  con 
trary  to  the  nature  of  his  character  that  Corona  looked 
earnestly  at -him.  His  face  was  discomposed,  and  his 
voice  had  trembled.  He  was  a  brave  man,  and  a  very 
honourable  one,  but  he  was  very  far  from  being  a  phi 
losopher.  As  he  had  said,  he  had  expended  all  his  calm 
ness  in  that  one  meeting  with  San  Giacinto  when  he  had 
been  persuaded  of  the  justice  of  the  latter's  claims.  Since 
then  he  had  felt  nothing  but  bitterness,  and  the  outward 
expression  of  it  was  either  an  unreasonable  irritation 
concerning  small  matters,  or  some  passionate  outburst 
like  the  present  against  life,  against  the  world  in  which 
he  lived,  against  everything.  It  is  scarcely  to  be  won 
dered  at  that  he  shoiild  have  felt  the  loss  so  deeply,  more 
deeply  even  than  Giovanni.  He  had  been  for  many  years 
the  sole  head  and  master  of  his  house,  and  had  borne  all 
the  hereditary  dignities  that  belonged  to  his  station,  some 
of  which  were  of  a  kind  that  pleased  his  love  of  feudal 
traditions.  For  the  money  he  cared  little.  The  loss  that 
hurt  him  most  touched  his  pride,  and  that  generous 
vanity  which  was  a  part  of  his  nature,  which  delighted 
in  the  honour  accorded  to  his  name,  to  his  son,  to  his 
son's  wife,  in  the  perpetuation  of  his  race  and  in  a  cer 
tain  dominating  independence,  that  injured  no  one  and 
gave  himself  immense  satisfaction.  At  his  age  he  was 
not  to  be  blamed  for  such  feelings.  They  proceeded  in 
reality  far  more  from  habit  than  from  a  vain  disposition, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  if  he  bore  the  calamity  bravely 
he  had  a  right  to  abuse  his  fate  in  his  own  language.  But 
he  could  not  always  keep  himself  from  betraying  more 
emotion  than  he  cared  to  show. 

"  Do  not  talk  of  death,"  said  Corona.  "  Giovanni  and  I 
will  make  your  life  happy  and  worth  living. "  She  sighed 
as  she  spoke,  in  spite  of  herself. 

"Giovanni  and  you!"  repeated  the  prince  gloomily. 
"But  for  his  folly  —  what  is  the  use  of  talking?  I  have 
much  to  do. "  If  he  comes  to  you  this  afternoon  please 
tell  him  that  I  want  him." 

Corona  was  glad  when  the  meal  was  ended,  and  she 
went  back  to  her  own  room.  She  had  promised  to  go  and 
see  Faustina  again,  but  otherwise  she  did  not  know  how 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  365 

to  occupy  herself.  A  vague  uneasiness  beset  her  as  the 
time  passed  and  her  husband  did  not  come  home.  It  was 
unlike  him  to  stay  away  all  day  without  warning  her, 
though  she  was  obliged  to  confess  to  herself- that  she  had 
of  late  shown  very  little  interest  in  his  doings,  and  that 
it  would  not  be  very  surprising  if  he  began  to  do  as  he 
pleased  without  informing  her  of  his  intentions.  Never 
theless  she  wished  he  would  show  himself  before  evening. 
The  force  of  habit  was  still  strong,  and  she  missed  him 
without  quite  knowing  it.  At  last  she  made  an  effort  against 
her  apathy,  and  went  out  to  pay  the  promised  visit. 

The  Monte varchi  household  was  subdued  under  all  the 
outward  pomp  of  a  ponderous  mourning.  The  gates  and 
staircases  were  hung  with  black.  In  the  vast  antecham 
ber  the  canopy  was  completely  hidden  by  an  enormous 
hatchment  before  which  the  dead  prince  had  lain  in  state 
during  the  previous  night  and  a  part  of  the  day.  Accord 
ing  to  the  Roman  custom  the  body  had  been  already 
removed,  the  regulations  of  the  city  requiring  that  this 
should  be  done  within  twenty-four  hours.  The  great 
black  pedestals  on  which  the  lights  had  been  placed  were 
still  standing,  and  lent  a  ghastly  and  sepulchral  appear 
ance  to  the  whole.  Numbers  of  servants  in  mourning 
liveries  stood  around  an  immense  copper  brazier  in  a 
corner,  talking  together  in  low  tones,  their  voices  dying 
away  altogether  as  the  Princess  Sant'  Ilario  entered  the 
open  door  of  the  hall.  The  man  who  came  forward  ap 
peared  to  be  the  person  in  charge  of  the  funeral,  for 
Corona  had  not  seen  him  in  the  house  before. 

"  Donna  Faustina  expects  me, "  she  said,  continuing  to 
walk  towards  the  entrance  to  the  apartments. 

"  Your  Excellency's  name?  "  inquired  the  man.  Corona 
was  surprised  that  he  should  ask,  and  wondered  whether 
even  the  people  of  his  class  already  knew  the  result  of 
the  suit. 

"  Donna  Corona  Saracinesca, "  she  answered  in  distinct 
tones.  The  appellation  sounded  strange  and  unfamiliar. 

"Donna  Corona  Saracinesca,"  the  man  repeated  in  a 
loud  voice  a  second  later.  He  had  almost  run  into  San 
Giacinto,  who  was  coming  out  at  that  moment.  Corona 
found  herself  face  to  face  with  her  cousin. 

"  You  —  princess !  "  he  exclaimed,  putting  out  his  hand, 


366  SANT'  ILARIO. 

In  spite  of  the  relationship  he  was  not  privileged  to  call 
her  by  her  name.  "You  —  why  does  the  man  announce 
you  in  that  way  ?  " 

Corona  took  his  hand  and  looked  quietly  into  his  face. 
They  had  not  met  since  the  decision. 

"  I  told  him  to  do  so.  I  shall  be  known  by  that  name 
in  future.  I  have  come  to  see  Faustina."  She  would 
have  passed  on. 

"Allow  me  to  say,"  said  San  Giacinto,  in  his  deep, 
calm  voice,  "  that  as  far  as  I  am  concerned  you  are,  and 
always  shall  be,  Princess  Sant'  Ilario.  No  one  can 
regret  more  than  I  the  position  in  which  I  am  placed 
towards  you  and  yours,  and  I  shall  certainly  do  all  in  my 
power  to  prevent  any  such  unnecessary  changes." 

"We  cannot  discuss  that  matter  here,"  answered 
Corona,  speaking  more  coldly  than  she  meant  to  do. 

"  I  trust  there  need  be  no  discussion.  I  even  hope  that 
you  will  bear  me  no  ill  will." 

"I  bear  you  none.  You  have  acted  honestly  and 
openly.  You  had  right  on  your  side.  But  neither  my 
husband  nor  I  will  live  under  a  borrowed  name." 

San  Giacinto  seemed  hurt  by  her  answer.  He  stood 
aside  to  allow  her  to  pass,  and  there  was  something 
dignified  in  his  demeanour  that  pleased  Corona. 

"The  settlement  is  not  made  yet,"  he  said  gravely. 
"Until  then  the  name  is  yours." 

When  she  was  gone  he  looked  after  her  with  an  expres 
sion  of  annoyance  upon  his  face.  He  understood  well 
enough  what  she  felt,  but  he  was  very  far  from  wishing 
to  let  any  unpleasantness  arise  between  him  and  her 
family.  Even  in  the  position  to  which  he  had  now 
attained  he  felt  that  there  was  an  element  of  uncertainty, 
and  he  did  not  feel  able  to  dispense  with  the  good-will 
of  his  relations,  merely  because  he  was  Prince  Saracin- 
esca  and  master  of  a  great  fortune.  His  early  life  had 
made  him  a  cautious  man,  and  he  did  not  underestimate 
the  value  of  personal  influence.  Moreover,  he  had  not 
a  bad  heart,  and  preferred  if  possible  to  be  on  good  terms 
with  everybody.  According  to  his  OAVU  view  he  had 
done  nothing  more  than  claim  what  was  legitimately  his, 
but  he  did  not  want  the  enmity  of  those  who  had  resigned 
all  into  his  hands, 


SANT'  ILARIO.  367 

Corona  went  on  her  way  and  found  Faustina  and  Flavia 
together.  Their  mother  was  not  able  to  see  any  one. 
The  rest  of  the  family  had  gone  to  the  country  as  soon 
as  the  body  had  been  taken  away,  yielding  without  any 
great  resistance  to  the  entreaties  of  their  best  friends 
who,  according  to  Roman  custom,  thought  it  necessary  to 
"  divert "  the  mourners.  That  is  the  consecrated  phrase, 
and  people  of  other  countries  may  open  their  eyes  in 
astonishment  at  the  state  of  domestic  relations  as  revealed 
by  this  practice.  It  is  not  an  uncommon  thing  for  the 
majority  of  the  family  to  go  away  even  before  death  has 
actually  taken  place.  Speaking  of  a  person  who  is  dying, 
it  is  not  unusual  to  say,  "  You  may  imagine  how  ill  he 
is,  for  the  family  has  left  him ! "  The  servants  attend 
the  Requiem  Mass,  the  empty  carriages  follow  the  hearse 
to  the  gates  of  the  city,  but  the  family  is  already  in  the 
country,  trying  to  "  divert "  itself. 

Flavia  and  Faustina,  however,  had  stayed  at  home, 
partly  because  the  old  princess  was  really  too  deeply 
moved  and  profoundly  shocked  to  go  away,  and  partly 
because  San  Giacinto  refused  to  leave  Rome.  Faustina, 
too,  was  eccentric  enough  to  think  such  haste  after  "di 
version  "  altogether  indecent,  and  she  herself  had  been 
through  such  a  series  of  emotions  during  the  twenty-four 
hours  that  she  found  rest  needful.  As  for  Flavia,  she 
took  matters  very  calmly,  but  would  have  preferred  very 
much  to  be  with  her  brothers  and  their  wives.  The 
calamity  had  for  the  time  subdued  her  vivacity,  though 
it  was  easy  to  see  that  it  had  made  110  deep  impression 
upon  her  nature.  If  the  truth  were  told,  she  was  more 
unpleasantly  affected  by  thus  suddenly  meeting  Corona 
than  by  her  father's  tragic  death.  She  thought  it  neces 
sary  to  be  more  than  usually  affectionate,  not  out  of  cal 
culation,  but  rather  to  get  rid  of  a  disagreeable  impression. 
She  sprang  forward  and  kissed  Corona  on  both  cheeks. 

"  I  was  longing  to  see  you ! "  she  said  enthusiastically. 
"  You  have  been  so  kind  to  Faustina.  I  am  sure  we  can 
never  thank  you  enough.  Imagine,  if  she  had  been 
obliged  to  spend  the  night  alone  in  prison !  Such  an 
abominable  mistake,  too.  I  hope  that  dreadful  man  will 
be  sent  to  the  galleys.  Poor  little  Faustina!  How 
could  any  one  think  she  could  do  such  a  thing!  " 


368  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

Corona  was  not  prepared  for  Flavia's  manner,  and  it 
grated  disagreeably  on  her  sensibilities.  But  she  said 
nothing,  only  returning  her  salutation  with  becoming 
cordiality  before  sitting  down  between  the  two  sisters. 
Faustina  looked  on  coldly,  disgusted  with  such  indiffer 
ence.  It  struck  her  that  if  Corona  had  not  accompanied 
her  to  the  Termini,  it  would  have  been  very  hard  to 
induce  any  of  her  own  family  to  do  so. 

"  And  poor  papa !  "  continued  Flavia  volubly.  "  Is  it 
not  too  dreadful,  too  horrible?  To  think  of  any  one 
daring !  I  shall  never  get  over  the  impression  it  made 
on  me  —  never.  Without  a  priest,  without  any  one  — 
poor  dear ! " 

"  Heaven  is  very  merciful, "  said  Corona,  thinking  it 
necessary  to  make  some  such  remark. 

"Oh,  I  know,"  answered  Flavia,  with  sudden  serious 
ness.  "I  know.  But  poor  papa  —  you  see  —  I  am  afraid 


She  stopped  significantly  and  shook  her  head,  evidently 
implying  that  Prince  Montevarchi's  chances  of  blessed 
ness  were  but  slender. 

"  Flavia !  "  cried  Faustina  indignantly,  "  how  can  you 
say  such  things !  " 

"  Oh,  I  say  nothing,  and  besides,  I  daresay  —  you  see 
he  was  sometimes  very  kind.  It  was  only  yesterday, 
for  instance,  that  he  actually  promised  me  those  earrings 
—  you  know,  Faustina,  the  pearl  drops  at  Civilotti's  — 
it  is  true,  they  were  not  so  very  big  after  all.  He  really 
said  he  would  give  them  to  me  as  a  souvenir  if  —  oh !  I 
forgot." 

She  stopped  with  some  embarrassment,  for  she  had 
been  on  the  point  of  saying  that  the  earrings  were  to  be 
a  remembrance  if  the  suit  were  won,  when  she  recollected 
that  she  was  speaking  to  Corona. 

"Well  —  it  would  have  been  very  kind  of  him  if  he 
had,"  she  added.  "Perhaps  that  is  something.  Poor 
papa!  One  would  feel  more  sure  about  it,  if  he  had  got 
some  kind  of  absolution." 

"  I  do  not  believe  you  cared  for  him  at  all !  "  exclaimed 
Faustina.  Corona  evidently  shared  this  belief,  for  she 
looked  very  grave  and  was  silent. 

"  Oh,  Faustina,  how  unkind  you  are !  "  cried  Flavia  in 


SANT'  ILARIO.  369 

great  astonishment  and  some  anger.  "I  am  sure  I  loved 
poor  papa  as  much  as  any  of  you,  and  perhaps  a  great 
deal  better.  We  were  always  such  good  friends !  " 

Faustina  raised  her  eyebrows  a  little  and  looked  at 
Corona  as  though  to  say  that  her  sister  was  hopeless,  and 
for  some  minutes  no  one  spoke. 

"You  are  quite  rested  now?"  asked  Corona  at  last, 
turning  to  the  young  girl.  "Poor  child!  what  you  must 
have  suffered ! " 

"  It  is  strange,  but  I  am  not  tired.  I  slept,  you  know, 
for  I  was  worn  out." 

"Faustina's  grief  did  not  keep  her  awake,"  observed 
Flavia,  willing  to  say  something  disagreeable. 

"  I  only  came  to  see  how  you  were, "  said  Corona,  who 
did  not  care  to  prolong  the  interview.  "  I  hope  to  hear 
that  your  mother  is  better  to-morrow.  I  met  Saracinesca 
as  I  came  in,  but  I  did  not  ask  him." 

"Your  father-in-law?"  asked  Faustina  innocently. 
"I  did  not  know  he  had  been  here." 

"  No ;  your  husband,  my  dear, "  answered  Corona,  look 
ing  at  Flavia  as  she  spoke.  She  was  curious  to  see  what 
effect  the  change  had  produced  upon  her.  Flavia's 
cheeks  flushed  quickly,  evidently  with  pleasure,  if  also 
with  some  embarrassment.  But  Corona  was  calm  and 
unmoved  as  usual. 

"I  did  not  know  you  already  called  him  so,"  said 
Flavia.  "  How  strange  it  will  be !  " 

"We  shall  soon  get  used  to  it,"  replied  Corona,  with 
a  smile,  as  she  rose  to  go.  "  I  wish  you  many  years  of 
happiness  with  your  new  name.  Good-bye."  Faustina 
went  with  her  into  one  of  the  outer  rooms. 

"  Tell  me, "  she  said,  when  they  were  alone,  "  how  did 
your  husband  manage  it  so  quickly?  They  told  me 
to-day  that  the  cardinal  had  at  first  refused.  I  cannot 
understand  it.  I  could  not  ask  you  before  Flavia  —  she 
is  so  inquisitive !  " 

"  I  do  not  know  —  I  have  not  seen  Giovanni  yet.  He 
stayed  with  the  cardinal  when  the  carriage  came  for  us. 
It  was  managed  in  some  way,  and  quickly.  I  shall  hear 
all  about  it  this  evening.  What  is  it,  dear?  " 

There  were  tears  in  Faustina's  soft  eyes,  followed 
quickly  by  a  little  sob. 


870  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"I  miss  him  dreadfully!"  she  exclaimed,  laying  her 
head  on  her  friend's  shoulder.  "  And  I  am  so  unhappy ! 
We  parted  angrily,  and  I  can  never  tell  him  how  sorry  I 
am.  You  do  not  think  it  could  have  had  anything  to  do 
with  it,  do  you?" 

"Your  little  quarrel?  No,  child.  What  could  it  have 
changed?  We  do  not  know  what  happened." 

"I  shall  never  forget  his  face.  I  was  dreadfully 
undutiful  —  oh!  I  could  almost  marry  that  man  if  it 
would  do  any  good !  " 

Corona  smiled  sadly.  The  young  girl's  sorrow  was 
genuine,  in  strange  contrast  to  Flavia's  voluble  flippancy. 
She  laid  her  hand  affectionately  on  the  thick  chestnut 
hair. 

"Perhaps  he  sees  now  that  you  should  not  marry 
against  your  heart." 

"Oh,  do  you  think  so?  I  wish  it  were  possible.  I 
should  not  feel  as  though  I  were  so  bad  if  I  thought  he 
understood  now.  I  could  bear  it  better.  I  should  not 
feel  as  though  it  were  almost  a  duty  to  marry  Frangi- 
pani." 

Corona  turned  quickly  with  an  expression  that  was 
almost  fierce  in  its  intensity.  She  took  Faustina's  hands 
in  hers. 

"Never  do  that,  Faustina.  Whatever  comes  to  you, 
do  not  do  that !  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  live  with 
a  man  you  do  not  love,  even  if  you  do  not  hate  him.  It 
is  worse  than  death." 

Corona  kissed  her  and  left  her  standing  by  the  door. 
Was  it  possible,  Faustina  asked,  that  Corona  did  not  love 
her  husband?  Or  was  she  speaking  of  her  former  life 
with  old  Astrardente?  Of  course,  it  must  be  that. 
Giovanni  and  Corona  were  a  proverbially  happy  couple. 

When  Corona  again  entered  her  own  room,  there  was  a 
note  lying  upon  the  table,  the  one  her  husband  had 
written  that  morning  from  his  place  of  confinement. 
She  tore  the  envelope  open  with  an  anxiety  of  which  she 
had  not  believed  herself  capable.  She  had  asked  for  him 
when  she  returned  and  he  had  not  been  heard  of  yet. 
The  vague  uneasiness  she  had  felt  at  his  absence  sud 
denly  increased,  until  she  felt  that  unless  she  saw  him 
at  once  she  must  go  in  search  of  him.  She  read  the  note 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  371 

through  again  and  again,  without  clearly  understanding 
the  contents. 

It  was  evident  that  he  had  left  Rome  suddenly  and  had 
not  cared  to  tell  her  whither  he  was  going,  since  the 
instructions  as  to  what  she  was  to  say  were  put  in  such 
a  manner  as  to  make  it  evident  that  they  were  only  to 
serve  as  an  excuse  for  his  absence  to  others,  and  not  as 
an  explanation  to  herself.  The  note  was  enigmatical  and 
might  mean  almost  anything.  At  last  Corona  tossed  the 
bit  of  paper  into  the  fire,  and  tapped  the  thick  carpet 
impatiently  with  her  foot. 

"  How  coldly  he  writes  !  "  she  exclaimed  aloud. 

The  door  opened  and  her  maid  appeared. 

"Will  your  Excellency  receive  Monsieur  Gouache?" 
asked  the  woman  from  the  threshold. 

"  No !  certainly  not ! "  answered  Corona,  in  a  voice 
that  frightened  the  servant.  "I  am  not  at  home." 

"  Yes,  your  Excellency." 


CHAPTER   XXVI. 

The  amount  of  work  which  Arnoldo  Meschini  did  in 
the  twenty-four  hours  of  the  day  depended  almost  entirely 
upon  his  inclinations.  The  library  had  always  been 
open  to  the  public  once  a  week,  on  Mondays,  and  on 
those  occasions  the  librarian  was  obliged  to  be  present. 
The  rest  of  his  time  was  supposed  to  be  devoted  to  the 
incessant  labour  connected  with  so  important  a  collection 
of  books,  and,  on  the  whole,  he  had  done  far  more  than 
was  expected  of  him.  Prince  Montevarchi  had  never 
proposed  to  give  him  an  assistant,  and  he  would  have 
rejected  any  such  offer,  since  the  presence  of  another 
person  would  have  made  it  almost  impossible  for  him  to 
carry  on  his  business  of  forging  ancient  manuscripts. 
The  manual  labour  of  his  illicit  craft  was  of  course  per 
formed  in  his  own  room,  but  a  second  librarian  could  not 
have  failed  to  discover  that  there  was  something  wrong. 
Night  after  night  he  carried  the  precious  manuscripts  to 
his  chamber,  bringing  them  back  and  restoring  them  to 


372  SANT'  ILARIO. 

their  places  every  morning.  During  the  day  he  studied 
attentively  what  he  afterwards  executed  in  the  quiet 
hours  when  he  could  be  alone.  Of  the  household  none 
but  the  prince  himself  ever  came  to  the  library;  no  other 
member  of  the  family  cared  for  the  books  or  knew  any 
thing  about  them.  His  employer  being  dead,  Meschini 
was  practically  master  of  all  the  shelves  contained.  No 
one  disturbed  him,  no  one  asked  what  he  was  doing.  His 
salary  would  be  paid  regularly  by  the  steward,  and  he 
would  in  all  probability  be  left  to  vegetate  unheeded  for 
the  rest  of  his  natural  lifetime.  When  he  died  some  one 
else  would  be  engaged  in  his  place.  In  the  ordinary  course 
of  events  no  other  future  would  have  been  open  to  him. 

He  awoke  very  late  in  the  morning  on  the  day  after 
the  murder,  and  lay  for  some  time  wondering  why  he 
was  so  very  uncomfortable,  why  his  head  hurt  him,  why 
his  vision  was  indistinct,  why  he  could  remember  noth 
ing  he  had  done  before  going  to  bed.  The  enormous 
quantity  of  liquor  he  had  drunk  had  temporarily  destroyed 
his  faculties,  which  were  not  hardened  by  the  habitual 
use  of  alcohol.  He  turned  his  head  uneasily  upon  the 
pillow  and  saw  the  bottles  on  the  table,  the  candle  burnt 
down  in  the  brass  candlestick  and  the  general  disorder  in 
the  room.  He  glanced  at  his  own  body  and  saw  that  he 
was  lying  dressed  upon  his  bed.  Then  the  whole  truth 
flashed  upon  his  mind  with  appalling  vividness.  A 
shock  went  through  his  system  as  though  some  one  had 
struck  him  violently  on  the  back  of  the  head,  while  the 
light  in  the  room  was  momentarily  broken  into  flashes 
that  pained  his  eyes.  He  got  upon  his  feet  with  diffi 
culty,  and  steadied  himself  by  the  bed-post,  hardly  able 
to  stand  alone. 

He  had  murdered  his  master.  The  first  moment  in 
which  he  realised  the  fact  was  the  most  horrible  he 
remembered  to  have  passed.  He  had  killed  the  prince 
and  could  recall  nothing,  or  next  to  nothing,  that  had 
occurred  since  the  deed.  Almost  before  he  knew  what 
he  was  doing  he  had  locked  his  door  with  a  double  turn 
of  the  key  and  was  pushing  the  furniture  against  it,  the 
table,  the  chairs,  everything  that  he  could  move.  It 
seemed  to  him  that  he  could  already  hear  upon  the  wind 
ing  stair  the  clank  of  the  gens  d'armes'  sabres  as  they 


SANT'  ILARIO.  373 

came  to  get  him.  He  looked  wildly  round  the  room  to 
see  whether  there  was  anything  that  could  lead  to  dis 
covery.  The  unwonted  exertion,  however,  had  restored 
the  circulation  of  his  blood,  and  with  it  arose  an  indis 
tinct  memory  of  the  sense  of  triumph  he  had  felt  when 
he  had  last  entered  the  chamber.  He  asked  himself  how 
he  could  have  rejoiced  over  the  deed,  unless  he  had 
unconsciously  taken  steps  for  his  own  safety.  The  body 
must  have  been  found  long  ago. 

Very  gradually  there  rose  before  him  the  vision  of  the 
scene  in  the  study,  when  he  had  been  summoned  thither 
by  the  two  servants,  the  dead  prince  stretched  on  the 
table,  the  pale  faces,  the  prefect,  Donna  Faustina's  voice, 
a  series  of  questions  asked  in  a  metallic,  pitiless  tone. 
He  had  not  been  drunk,  therefore,  when  they  had  sent 
for  him.  And  yet,  he  knew  that  he  had  not  been  sober. 
In  what  state,  then,  had  he  found  himself?  With  a 
shudder,  he  remembered  his  terror  in  the  library,  his 
fright  at  the  ghost  which  had  turned  out  to  be  only  his 
own  coat,  his  visit  to  his  room,  and  the  first  draught  he 
had  swallowed.  From  that  point  onwards  his  memory 
grew  less  and  less  clear.  He  found  that  he  could  not 
remember  at  all  how  he  had  come  upstairs  the  last  time. 

One  thing  was  evident,  however.  He  had  not  been, 
arrested,  since  he  found  himself  in  his  chamber  unmo 
lested.  Who,  then,  had  been  taken  in  his  place?  He 
was  amazed  to  find  that  he  did  not  know.  Surely,  at 
the  first  inquest,  something  must  have  been  said  which 
would  have  led  to  the  arrest  of  some  one.  The  law  never 
went  away  empty-handed.  He  racked  his  aching  brain 
to  bring  back  the  incident,  but  it  would  not  be  recalled 
—  for  the  excellent  reason  that  he  really  knew  nothing 
about  the  matter.  It  was  a  relief  at  all  events  to  find 
that  he  had  actually  been  examined  with  the  rest  and 
had  not  been  suspected.  Nevertheless,  he  had  undoubt 
edly  done  the  deed,  of  which  the  mere  thought  made  him 
tremble  in  every  joint.  Or  was  it  all  a  part  of  his 
drunken  dreams?  No,  that,  at  least,  could  not  be 
explained  away.  For  a  long  time  he  moved  uneasily 
from  his  barricade  at  the  door  to  the  window,  from  which 
he  tried  to  see  the  street  below.  But  his  room  was  in 
the  attic,  and  the  broad  stone  cornice  of  the  palace  cut 


374  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

off  the  view  effectually.  At  last  he  began  to  pull  the 
furniture  away  from  the  entrance,  slowly  at  first,  as  he 
merely  thought  of  its  uselessness,  then  with  feverish 
haste,  as  he  realised  that  the  fact  of  his  trying  to  entrench 
himself  in  his  quarters  would  seem  suspicious.  In  a  few 
seconds  he  had  restored  everything  to  its  place.  The 
brandy  bottles  disappeared  into  the  cupboard  in  the  wall; 
a  bit  of  candle  filled  the  empty  candlestick.  He  tore  off 
his  clothes  and  jumped  into  bed,  tossing  himself  about 
to  give  it  the  appearance  of  having  been  slept  in.  Then 
he  got  up  again  and  proceeded  to  make  his  toilet.  All 
his  clothes  were  black,  and  he  had  but  a  slender  choice. 
He  understood  vaguely,  however,  that  there  would  be  a 
funeral  or  some  sort  of  ceremony  in  which  all  the  mem 
bers  of  the  household  would  be  expected  to  join,  and  he 
arrayed  himself  in  the  best  he  had  —  a  decent  suit  of 
broadcloth,  a  clean  shirt,  a  black  tie.  He  looked  at 
himself  in  the  cracked  mirror.  His  face  was  ghastly 
yellow,  the  whites  of  his  eyes  injected  with  blood,  the 
veins  at  the  temples  swollen  and  congested.  He  was 
afraid  that  his  appearance  might  excite  remark,  though 
it  was  in  reality  not  very  much  changed. 

Then,  as  he  thought  of  this,  he  realised  that  he  was  to 
meet  a  score  of  persons,  some  of  whom  would  very  prob 
ably  look  at  him  curiously.  His  nerves  were  in  a  shat 
tered  condition;  he  almost  broke  down  at  the  mere  idea 
of  what  he  must  face.  What  would  become  of  him  in 
the  presence  of  the  reality?  And  yet  he  had  met  the 
whole  household  bravely  enough  on  the  very  spot  where 
he  had  done  the  murder  on  the  previous  evening.  He 
sat  down,  overpowered  by  the  revival  of  his  fear  and 
horror.  The  room  swam  around  him  and  he  grasped 
the  edge  of  the  table  for  support.  But  he  could  not  stay 
there  all  day.  Any  reluctance  to  make  his  appearance 
at  such  a  time  might  be  fatal.  There  was  only  one  way 
to  get  the  necessary  courage,  and  that  was  to  drink  again. 
He  shrank  from  the  thought.  He  had  not  acquired  the 
habitual  drunkard's  certainty  of  finding  nerve  and  bold 
ness  and  steadiness  of  hand  in  the  morning  draught,  and 
the  idea  of  tasting  the  liquor  was  loathsome  to  him  in 
his  disordered  state.  He  rose  to  his  feet  and  tried  to  act 
as  though  he  were  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  persons. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  375 

Ape-like,  he  grinned  at  the  furniture,  walked  about  the 
room,  spoke  aloud,  pretending  that  he  was  meeting  real 
people,  tried  to  frame  sentences  expressive  of  profound 
grief.  He  opened  the  door  and  made  a  pretence  of  greet 
ing  an  imaginary  individual.  It  was  as  though  a  stream 
of  cold  water  had  fallen  upon  his  neck.  His  knees 
knocked,  together,  and  he  felt  sick  with  fear.  There  was 
evidently  no  use  in  attempting  to  go  down  without  some 
stimulant.  Almost  sorrowfully  he  shut  the  door  again, 
and  took  the  bottle  from  its  place.  He  took  several  small 
doses,  patiently  testing  the  effect  until  his  hand  was 
steady  and  warm. 

Ten  minutes  later  he  was  kneeling  with  many  others 
before  the  catafalque,  beneath  the  great  canopy  of  black. 
He  was  dazed  by  the  light  of  the  great  branches  of  can 
dles,  and  confused  by  the  subdued  sound  of  whispering 
and  of  softly  treading  feet;  but  he  knew  that  his  out 
ward  demeanour  was  calm  and  collected,  and  that  he  ex 
hibited  no  signs  of  nervousness.  San  Giacinto  was 
standing  near  one  of  the  doors,  having  taken  his  turn 
with  the  sons  of  the  dead  man  to  remain  in  the  room. 
He  watched  the  librarian  and  a  rough  sort  of  pity  made 
itself  felt  in  his  heart. 

"  Poor  Meschini !  "  he  thought.  "  He  has  lost  a  friend. 
I  daresay  he  is  more  genuinely  sorry  than  all  the  family 
put  together,  poor  fellow !  " 

Arnoldo  Meschini,  kneeling  before  the  body  of  the  man 
he  had  murdered,  with  a  brandy  bottle  in  the  pocket  of 
his  long  coat,  would  have  come  to  an  evil  end  if  the 
giant  had  guessed  the  truth.  But  he  looked  what  he  was 
supposed  to  be,  the  humble,  ill-paid,  half-starved  libra 
rian,  mourning  the  master  he  had  faithfully  served  for 
thirty  years.  He  knelt  a  long  time,  his  lips  moving 
mechanically  with  the  words  of  an  oft-repeated  prayer. 
In  reality  he  was  afraid  to  rise  from  his  knees  alone,  and 
was  waiting  until  some  of  the  others  made  the  first  move. 
But  the  rows  of  lacqueys,  doubtless  believing  that  the 
amount  of  their  future  wages  would  largely  depend  upon 
the  vigour  of  their  present  mourning,  did  not  seem  in 
clined  to  desist  from  their  orisons.  To  Meschini  the 
time  was  interminable,  and  his  courage  was  beginning  to 
ooze  away  from  him,  as  the  sense  of  his  position  acquired 


376  SANT'  ILARIO. 

a  tormenting  force.  He  could  have  borne  it  well  enough 
in  a  church,  in  the  midst  of  a  vast  congregation,  he  could 
have  fought  off  his  horror  even  here  for  a  few  minutes, 
but  to  sustain  such  a  part  for  a  quarter  of  an  hour  seemed 
almost  impossible.  He  would  have  given  his  soul,  which 
indeed  was  just  then  of  but  small  value,  to  take  a  sip  of 
courage  from  the  bottle,  and  his  clasped  fingers  twitched 
nervously,  longing  to  find  the  way  to  his  pocket.  He 
glanced  along  the  line,  measuring  his  position,  to  see 
whether  there  was  a  possibility  of  drinking  without 
being  observed,  but  he  saw  that  it  would  be  madness  to 
think  of  it,  and  began  repeating  his  prayer  with  redoubled 
energy,  in  the  hope  of  distractng  his  mind.  Then  a  hor 
rible  delusion  began  to  take  possession  of  him;  he  fan 
cied  that  the  dead  man  was  beginning  to  turn  his  head 
slowly,  almost  imperceptibly,  towards  him.  Those  closed 
eyes  would  open  and  look  him  in  the  face,  a  supernatural 
voice  would  speak  his  name.  As  on  the  previous  after 
noon  the  cold  perspiration  began  to  trickle  from  his  brow. 
He  was  on  the  point  of  crying  aloud  with  terror,  when  the 
man  next  to  him  rose.  In  an  instant  he  was  on  his  feet. 
Both  bent  again,  crossed  themselves,  and  retired.  Mes- 
chini  stumbled  and  caught  at  his  companion's  arm,  but 
succeeded  in  gaining  the  door.  As  he  passed  out,  his  face 
was  so  discomposed  that  San  Giacinto  looked  down  upon 
him  with  increased  compassion,  then  followed  him  a  few 
steps  and  laid  his  hand  on  his  shoulder.  The  librarian 
started  violently  and  stood  still. 

"He  was  a  good  friend  to  you,  Signor  Meschini,"  said 
the  big  man  kindly.  "But  take  heart,  you  shall  not  be 
forgotten." 

The  dreaded  moment  had  come,  and  it  had  been  very 
terrible,  but  San  Giacinto's  tone  was  reassuring.  He 
could  not  have  suspected  anything,  though  the  servants 
said  that  he  was  an  inscrutable  man,  profound  in  his 
thoughts  and  fearful  in  his  anger.  He  was  the  one  of 
all  the  family  whom  Meschini  most  feared. 

"God  have  mercy  on  him!"  whined  the  librarian, 
trembling  to  his  feet.  "  He  was  the  best  of  men,  and  is 
no  doubt  in  glory !  " 

"No  doubt,"  replied  San  Giacinto  drily.  He  enter 
tained  opinions  of  his  own  upon  the  subject,  and  he  did 


SANT'  TLARIO.  377 

not  like  the  man's  tone.  "  No  doubt, "  he  repeated.  "  We 
will  try  and  fulfil  his  wishes  with  regard  to  you." 

"Grazie,  Eccelenza!"  said  Meschini  with  great  hu 
mility,  making  horns  with  his  ringers  behind  his  back  to 
ward  off  the  evil  eye,  and  edging  away  in  the  direction 
of  the  grand  staircase. 

San  Giacinto  returned  to  the  door  and  paid  no  more 
attention  to  him.  Then  Meschini  almost  ran  down  the 
stairs  and  did  not  slacken  his  speed  iintil  he  found  him 
self  in  the  street.  The  cold  air  of  the  winter's  day  re 
vived  him,  and  he  found  himself  walking  rapidly  in  the 
direction  of  the  Ponte  Quattro  Capi.  He  generally  took 
that  direction  when  he  went  out  without  any  especial 
object,  for  his  friend  Tiberio  Colaisso,  the  poor  apothe 
cary,  had  his  shop  upon  the  little  island  of  Saint  Barthol 
omew,  which  is  connected  with  the  shores  of  the  river  by 
a  double  bridge,  whence  the  name,  "  the  birdge  of  four 
heads." 

Meschini  paused  and  looked  over  the  parapet  at  the 
yellow  swirling  water.  The  eddies  seemed  to  take  queer 
shapes  and  he  watched  them  for  a  long  time.  He  had  a 
splitting  headache,  of  the  kind  which  is  made  more  pain 
ful  by  looking  at  quickly  moving  objects,  which,  at  the 
same  time,  exercise  an  irresistible  fascination  over  the 
eye.  Almost  unconsciously  he  compared  his  own  life  to 
the  river  —  turbid,  winding,  -destroying.  The  simile  was 
incoherent,  like  most  of  his  fancies  on  that  day,  but  it 
served  to  express  a  thought,  and  he  began  to  feel  an  odd 
sympathy  for  the  muddy  stream,  such  as  perhaps  no  one 
had  ever  felt  before  him.  But  as  he  looked  he  grew 
dizzy,  and  drew  back  from  the  parapet.  There  must 
have  been  something  strange  in  his  face,  for  a  man  who 
was  passing  looked  at  him  curiously  and  asked  whether 
he  were  ill.  He  shook  his  head  with  a  sickly  smile  and 
passed  on. 

The  apothecary  was  standing  idly  at  his  door,  waiting 
for  a  custom  that  rarely  came  his  way.  He  was  a  cadav 
erous  man,  about  fifty  years  of  age,  with  eyes  of  an  un 
certain  colour  set  deep  in  his  head.  An  ill-kept,  grizzled 
beard  descended  upon  his  chest,  and  gave  a  certain  wild- 
ness  to  his  appearance.  A  very  shabby  green  smoking 
cap,  trimmed  with  tarnished  silver  lace,  was  set  far  back 


378  SANT'  ILARIO. 

upon  his  head,  displaying  a  wrinkled  forehead,  much 
heightened  by  baldness,  but  of  proportions  that  denoted 
a  large  and  active  brain.  That  he  took  snuff  in  great 
quantities  was  apparent.  Otherwise  he  was  neither  very 
dirty  nor  very  clean,  but  his  thumbs  had  that  peculiar 
shape  which  seems  to  be  the  result  of  constantly  rolling 
pills.  Meschini  stopped  before  him. 

"Sor  Arnoldo,  good-day,"  said  the  chemist,  scrutinis 
ing  his  friend's  face  curiously. 

"  Good-day,  Sor  Tiberio,"  replied  the  librarian.  "  Will 
you  let  me  come  in  for  a  little  moment?  "  There  seemed 
to  be  an  attempt  at  a  jest  in  the  question,  for  the  apothe 
cary  almost  smiled. 

"Padrone,"  he  said,  retiring  backwards  through  the 
narrow  door.  "A  game  of  scopa  to-day?" 

"Have  you  the  time  to  spare? "  inquired  the  other,  in 
a  serious  tone.  They  always  maintained  the  myth  that 
Tiberio  Colaisso  was  a  very  busy  man. ' 

"To-day,"  answered  the  latter,  without  a  smile,  and 
emphasising  the  word  as  though  it  defined  an  exception, 
"to-day,  I  have  nothing  to  do.  Besides,  it  is  early." 

"We  can  play  a  hand  and  then  we  can  dine  at  Cicco's." 

"Being  Friday  in  Advent,  I  had  intended  to  fast," 
replied  the  apothecary,  who  had  not  a  penny  in  his 
pocket.  "  But  since  you  are  so  good  as  to  invite  me,  I  do 
not  say  no." 

Meschini  said  nothing,  for  he  understood  the  situa 
tion,  which  was  by  no  means  a  novel  one.  His  friend 
produced  a  pack  of  Italian  cards,  almost  black  with  age. 
He  gave  Meschini  the  only  chair,  and  seated  himself 
upon  a  three-legged  stool. 

It  was  a  dismal  scene.  The  shop  was  like  many  of  its 
kind  in  the  poorer  quarters  of  old  Rome.  There  was 
room  for  the  counter  and  for  three  people  to  stand  before 
it  when  the  door  was  shut.  The  floor  was  covered  with 
a  broken  pavement  of  dingy  bricks.  As  the  two  men 
began  to  play  a  fine,  drizzling  rain  wet  the  silent  street 
outside,  and  the  bricks  within  at  once  exhibited  an  unc 
tuous  moisture.  The  sky  had  become  cloudy  after  the 
fine  morning,  and  there  was  little  light  in  the  shop. 
Three  of  the  walls  were  hidden  by  cases  with  glass  doors, 
containing  an  assortment  of  majolica  jars  which  would 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  379 

delight  a  modern  amateur,  but  which  looked  dingy  and 
mean  in  the  poor  shop.  Here  and  there,  between  them, 
stood  bottles  large  and  small,  some  broken  and  dusty, 
others  filled  with  liquids  and  bearing  paper  labels,  brown 
with  age,  the  ink  inscriptions  fading  into  the  dirty  surface 
that  surrounded  them.  The  only  things  in  the  place  which 
looked  tolerably  clean  were  the  little  brass  scales  and  the 
white  marble  tablet  for  compounding  solid  medicines. 

The  two  men  looked  as  though  they  belonged  to  the 
little  room.  Meschini's  yellow  complexion  was  as  much 
in  keeping  with  the  surroundings  as  the  chemist's  gray, 
colourless  face.  His  bloodshot  eyes  wandered  from  the 
half-defaced  cards  to  the  objects  in  the  shop,  and  he  was 
uncertain  in  his  play.  His  companion  looked  at  him  as 
though  he  were  trying  to  solve  some  intricate  problem 
that  gave  him  trouble.  He  himself  was  a  man  who,  like 
the  librarian,  had  begun  life  under  favourable  circum 
stances,  had  studied  medicine  and  had  practised  it.  But 
he  had  been  unfortunate,  and,  though  talented,  did  not 
possess  the  qualifications  most  necessary  for  his  profes 
sion.  He  had  busied  himself  with  chemistry  and  had 
invented  a  universal  panacea  which  had  failed,  and  in 
which  he  had  sunk  most  of  his  small  capital.  Disgusted 
with  his  reverses  he  had  gravitated  slowly  to  his  present 
position.  Finding  him  careless  and  indifferent  to  their 
wants,  his  customers  had  dropped  away,  one  by  one,  until 
he  earned  barely  enough  to  keep  body  and  soul  together. 
Only  the  poorest  class  of  people,  emboldened  by  the  mean 
aspect  of  his  shop,  came  in  to  get  a  plaster,  an  ointment 
or  a  black  draught,  at  the  lowest  possible  prices.  And 
yet,  in  certain  branches,  Tiberio  Colaisso  was  a  learned 
man.  At  all  events  he  had  proved  himself  able  to  do  all 
that  Meschini  asked  of  him.  He  was  keen,  too,  in  an 
indolent  way,  and  a  single  glance  had  satisfied  him  that 
something  very  unusual  had  happened  to  the  librarian. 
He  watched  him  patiently,  hoping  to  find  out  the  truth 
without  questions.  At  the  same  time,  the  hope  of  win 
ning  a  few  coppers  made  him  keep  an  eye  on  the  game. 
To  his  surprise  he  won  easily,  and  he  was  further  aston 
ished  when  he  saw  that  the  miserly  Meschini  was  not 
inclined  to  complain  of  his  losses  nor  to  accuse  him  of 
cheating:. 


380  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

"You  are  not  lucky  to:day,"  he  remarked  at  last,  when 
his  winnings  amounted  to  a  couple  of  pauls — a  modern 
franc  in  all. 

Meschini  looked  at  him  uneasily  and  wiped  his  brow, 
leaning  back  in  the  rickety  chair.  His  hands  were  trem 
bling. 

"No,"  he  answered.  "I  am  not  quite  myself  to-day. 
The  fact  is  that  a  most  dreadful  tragedy  occurred  in  our 
house  last  night,  the  mere  thought  of  which  gives  me  the 
fever.  I  am  even  obliged  to  take  a  little  stimulant  from 
time  to  time." 

So  saying,  he  drew  the  bottle  from  his  pocket  and  ap 
plied  it  to  his  lips.  He  had  hoped  that  it  would  not  be 
necessary,  but  he  was  unable  to  do  without  it  very  long, 
his  nerves  being  broken  down  by  the  quantity  he  had 
taken  on  the  previous  night.  Colaisso  looked  on  in 
silence,  more  puzzled  than  ever.  The  librarian  seemed 
to  be  revived  by  the  dose,  and  spoke  more  cheerfully 
after  it. 

"A  most  terrible  tragedy,"  he  said.  "The  prince  was 
murdered  yesterday  afternoon.  I  could  not  speak  of  it  to 
you  at  once." 

"  Murdered?  "  exclaimed  the  apothecary  in  amazement. 
"And  by  whom?" 

"That  is  the  mystery.  He  was  found  dead  in  his 
study.  I  will  tell  you  all  I  know." 

Meschini  communicated  the  story  to  his  friend  in  a 
disjointed  fashion,  interspersing  his  narrative  with  many 
comments  intended  to  give  himself  courage  to  proceed. 
He  told  the  tale  with  evident  reluctance,  but  he  could 
not  avoid  the  necessity.  If  Tiberio  Colaisso  read  the 
account  in  the  paper  that  evening,  as  he  undoubtedly 
would,  he  would  wonder  why  his  companion  had  not 
been  the  first  to  relate  the  catastrophe ;  and  this  wonder 
might  turn  into  a  suspicion.  It  would  have  been  better 
not  to  come  to  the  apothecary's,  but  since  he  found  him 
self  there  he  could  not  escape  from  informing  him  of 
what  had  happened. 

"It  is  very  strange,"  said  the  chemist,  when  he  had 
heard  all.  Meschini  thought  he  detected  a  disagreeable 
look  in  his  eyes. 

"It  is,  indeed,"  he  answered.  "I  am  made  ill  by  it. 
See  how  my  hand  trembles.  I  am  cold  and  hot." 


SANT'  ILAKIO.  381 

"You  have  been  drinking  too  much,"  said  Colaisso 
suddenly,  and  with  a  certain  brutality  that  startled  his 
friend.  "  You  are  not  sober.  You  must  have  taken  a 
great  deal  last  night.  A  libation  to  the  dead,  I  suppose, 
in  the  manner  of  the  ancients." 

Meschini  winced  visibly  and  began  to  shuffle  the  cards, 
while  he  attempted  to  smile  to  hide  his  embarrassment. 

"  I  was  not  well  yesterday  —  at  least  —  I  do  not  know 
what  was  the  matter  —  a  headache,  I  think,  nothing 
more.  And  then,  this  awful  catastrophe  —  horrible !  My 
nerves  are  unstrung.  I  can  scarcely  speak." 

"You  need  sleep  first,  and  then  a  tonic."  said  the 
apothecary  in  a  business-like  tone. 

"I  slept  until  late  this  morning.  It  did  me  no  good. 
I  am  half  dead  myself.  Yes,  if  I  could  sleep  again  it 
might  do  me  good." 

"  Go  home  and  go  to  bed.  If  I  were  in  your  place  I 
would  not  drink  any  more  of  that  liquor,  It  will  only 
make  you  worse." 

"  Give  me  something  to  make  me  sleep.    I  will  take  it. " 

The  apothecary  looked  long  at  him  and  seemed  to  be 
weighing  something  in  his  judgment.  An  evil  thought 
crossed  his  mind.  He  was  very  poor.  He  knew  well 
enough,  in  spite  of  Meschini's  protestations,  that  he  was 
not  so  poor  as  he  pretended  to  be.  If  he  were  he  could 
not  have  paid  so  regularly  for  the  chemicals  and  for  the 
experiments  necessary  to  the  preparation  of  his  inks. 
More  than  once  the  operations  had  proved  to  be  expen 
sive,  but  the  librarian  had  never  complained,  though  he 
haggled  for  a  baiocco  over  his  dinner  at  Cicco's  wine 
shop,  and  was  generally  angry  when  he  lost  a  paul  at 
cards.  He  had  money  somewhere.  It  was  evident  that 
he  was  in  a  highly  nervous  state.  If  he  could  be  induced 
to  take  opium  once  or  twice  it  might  become  a  habit. 
To  sell  opium  was  very  profitable,  and  Colaisso  knew 
well  enough  the  power  of  the  vice  and  the  proportions 
it  would  soon  assume,  especially  if  Meschini  thought 
the  medicine  contained  only  some  harmless  drug. 

"Very  well,"  said  the  apothecary.  "I  will  make  you 
a  draught.  But  you  must  be  sure  that  you  are  ready  to 
sleep  when  you  take  it.  It  acts  very  quickly." 

The  draught  which  Meschini  carried  home  with  him 


382  SANT'  ILARIO. 

was  nothing  but  weak  laudanum  and  water.  It  looked 
innocent  enough  in  the  little  glass  bottle  labelled  "  Sleep 
ing  potion."  But  the  effect  of  it,  as  Colaisso  had  told 
him,  was  very  rapid.  Exhausted  by  all  he  had  suffered, 
the  librarian  closed  the  windows  of  his  room  and  lay 
down  to  rest.  In  a  quarter  of  an  hour  he  was  in  a  heavy 
sleep.  In  his  dreams  he  was  happier  than  he  had  ever 
been  before.  The  whole  world  seemed  to  be  his,  to  use 
as  he  pleased.  He  was  transformed  into  a  magnificent 
being  such  as  he  had  never  imagined  in  his  waking  hours. 
He  passed  from  one  scene  of  splendour  to  another,  from 
glory  to  glory,  surrounded  by  forms  of  beauty,  by 
showers  of  golden  light  in  a  beatitude  beyond  all  descrip 
tion.  It  was  as  though  he  had  suddenly  become  emperor 
of  the  whole  universe.  He  floated  through  wondrous 
regions  of  soft  colour,  and  strains  of  divine  music 
sounded  in  his  ears.  Gentle  hands  carried  him  with  an 
easy  swaying  motion  to  transcendent  heights,  where  every 
breath  he  drew  was  like  a  draught  of  sparkling  life.  His 
whole  being  was  filled  with  something  which  he  knew  was 
happiness,  until  he  felt  as  though  he  could  not  contain 
the  overflowing  joy.  At  one  moment  he  glided  beyond 
the  clouds  through  a  gorgeous  sunset;  at  another  he  was 
lying  on  a  soft  invisible  couch,  looking  out  to  the  bright 
distance  —  distance  that  never  ended,  never  could  end, 
but  the  contemplation  of  which  was  rapture,  the  greater 
for  being  inexplicable.  An  exquisite  new  sense  was  in 
him,  corresponding  to  no  bodily  instinct,  but  rejoicing 
wildly  in  something  that  could  not  be  denned,  nor  under 
stood,  nor  measured,  but  only  felt. 

At  last  he  began  to  descend,  slowly  at  first  and  then 
with  increasing  speed,  till  he  grew  giddy  and  unconscious 
in  the  fall.  He  awoke  and  uttered  a  cry  of  terror.  It 
was  night,  and  he  was  alone  in  the  dark.  He  was  chilled 
to  the  bone,  too,  and  his  head  was  heavy,  but  the  dark 
ness  was  unbearable,  and  though  he  would  gladly  have 
slept  again  he  dared  not  remain  an  instant  without  a 
light.  He  groped  about  for  his  matches,  found  them, 
and  lit  a  candle.  A  neighbouring  clock  tolled  out  the 
hour  of  midnight,  and  the  sound  of  the  bells  terrified 
him  beyond  measure.  Cold,  miserable,  in  an  agony  of 
fear,  his  nervousness  doubled  by  the  opium  and  by  a  need 


SANT'  ILARIO.  383 

of  food  of  which  he  was  not  aware,  there  was  but  one 
remedy  within  his  reach.  The  sleeping  potion  had  been 
calculated  for  one  occasion  only,  and  it  was  all  gone.  He 
tried  to  drain  a  few  drops  from  the  phial,  and  a  drowsy, 
half -sicken  ing  odour  rose  from  it  to  his  nostrils.  But 
there  was  nothing  left,  nothing  but  the  brandy,  and  little 
more  than  half  a  bottle  of  that.  It  was  enough  for  his 
present  need,  however,  and  more  than  enough.  He 
drank  greedily,  for  he  was  parched  with  thirst,  though 
hardly  conscious  of  the  fact.  Then  he  slept  till  morn 
ing.  But  when  he  opened  his  eyes  he  was  conscious  that 
he  was  in  a  worse  state  than  on  the  previous  day.  He 
was  not  only  nervous  but  exhausted,  and  it  was  with 
feeble  steps  that  he  made  his  way  to  his  friend's  shop, 
in  order  to  procure  a  double  dose  of  the  sleeping  mix 
ture.  If  he  could  sleep  through  the  twenty-four  hours, 
he  thought,  so  as  not  to  wake  up  in  the  dead  of  night,  he 
should  be  better.  When  he  made  his  appearance  Tiberio 
Colaisso  knew  what  he  wanted,  and  although  he  had 
half  repented  of  what  he  had  done,  the  renewed  possi 
bility  of  selling  the  precious  drug  was  a  temptation  he 
could  not  withstand. 

.One  day  succeeded  another,  and  each  morning  saw 
Arnoldo  Meschini  crossing  the  Ponte  Quattro  Capi  on 
his  way  to  the  apothecary's.  In  the  ordinary  course  of 
human  nature  a  man  does  not  become  an  opium-eater  in 
a  day,  nor  even,  perhaps,  in  a  week,  but  to  the  librarian 
the  narcotic  became  a  necessity  almost  from  the  first. 
Its  action,  combined  with  incessant  doses  of  alcohol,  was 
destructive,  but  the  man's  constitution  was  stronger  than 
would  have  been  believed.  He  possessed,  moreover,  a 
great  power  of  controlling  his  features  when  he  was  not 
assailed  by  supernatural  fears,  and  so  it  came  about  that, 
living  almost  in  solitude,  no  one  in  the  Palazzo  Monte- 
varchi  was  aware  of  his  state.  It  was  bad  enough, 
indeed,  for  when  he  was  not  under  the  influence  of  brandy 
he  was  sleeping  from  the  effects  of  opium.  In  three  days 
he  was  willing  to  pay  anything  the  apothecary  asked, 
and  seemed  scarcely  conscious  of  the  payments  he  made. 
He  kept  up  a  show  of  playing  the  accustomed  game  of 
cards,  but  he  was  absent-minded,  and  was  not  even 
angry  at  his  daily  losses.  The  apothecary  had  more 


384  SANT'  ILARIO. 

money  in  his  pocket  than  he  had  possessed  for  many  a 
day.  As  Arnoldo  Meschini  sank  deeper  and  deeper,  the 
chemist's  spirits  rose,  and  he  began  to  assume  an  air  of 
unwonted  prosperity.  One  of  the  earliest  results  of  the 
librarian's  degraded  condition  was  that  Tiberio  Colaisso 
procured  himself  a  new  green  smoking  cap  ornamented 
profusely  with  fresh  silver  lace. 


CHAPTER   XXVII. 

Sant'  Ilario  had  guessed  rightly  that  the  place  of 
safety  and  secrecy  to  which  he  was  to  be  conveyed  was 
no  other  than  the  Holy  Office,  or  prison  of  the  Inquisi 
tion.  He  was  familiar  with  the  interior  of  the  building, 
and  knew  that  it  contained  none  of  the  horrors  generally 
attributed  to  it,  so  that,  on  the  whole,  he  was  well  satis 
fied  with  the  cardinal's  choice.  The  cell  to  which  he 
was  conveyed  after  dark  was  a  large  room  on  the  second 
story,  comfortably  furnished  and  bearing  no  sign  of  its 
use  but  the  ornamented  iron  grating  that  filled  the  win 
dow.  The  walls  were  not  thicker  than  those  of  most 
Koman  palaces,  and  the  chamber  was  dry  and  airy,  and 
sufficiently  warmed  by  a  huge  brazier  of  coals.  It  was 
clear  from  the  way  in  which  he  was  treated  that  the 
cardinal  relied  upon  his  honour  more  than  upon  any  use 
of  force  in  order  to  keep  him  in  custody.  A  silent 
individual  in  a  black  coat  had  brought  him  in  a  carriage 
to  the  great  entrance,  whence  a  man  of  similar  discretion 
and  of  like  appearance  had  conducted  him  to  his  cell. 
This  person  returned  soon  afterwards,  bringing  a  suffi 
cient  meal  of  fish  and  vegetables  —  it  was  Friday  — 
decently  cooked  and  almost  luxuriously  served.  An 
hour  later  the  man  came  back  to  carry  away  what  was 
left.  He  asked  whether  the  prisoner  needed  anything 
else  for  the  night. 

"  I  would  like  to  know, "  said  Giovanni,  "  whether  any 
of  my  friends  will  be  allowed  to  see  me,  if  I  ask  it." 

"  I  am  directed  to  say  that  any  request  or  complaint 


SANT'  ILARTO.  385 

you  have  to  make  will  be  transmitted  to  his  Eminence  by 
a  special  messenger,"  answered  the  man.  "Anything," 
he  added  in  explanation,  "beyond  what  concerns  your 
personal  comfort.  In  this  respect  I  am  at  liberty  to  give 
you  whatever  you  desire,  within  reason." 

"Thank  you.  I  will  endeavour  to  be  reasonable," 
replied  Giovanni.  "I  am  much  obliged  to  you." 

The  man  left  the  room  and  closed  the  door  softly,  so 
softly  that  the  prisoner  wondered  whether  he  had  turned 
the  key.  On  examining  the  panels  he  saw,  however, 
that  they  were  smooth  and  not  broken  by  any  latch  or 
keyhole.  The  spring  was  on  the  outside,  and  there  was 
no  means  whatever  of  opening  the  door  from  within. 

Giovanni  wondered  why  a  special  messenger  was  to 
be  employed  to  carry  any  request  he  made  directly  to  the 
cardinal.  The  direction  could  not  have  been  given  idly, 
nor  was  it  without  some  especial  reason  that  he  was  at 
once  told  of  it.  Assuredly  his  Eminence  was  not  expect 
ing  the  prince  to  repent  of  his  bargain  and  to  send  word 
that  he  wished  to  be  released.  The  idea  was  absurd. 
The  great  man  might  suppose,  however,  that  Giovanni 
would  desire  to  send  some  communication  to  his  wife, 
who  would  naturally  be  anxious  about  his  absence. 
Against  this  contingency,  however,  Sant'  Ilario  had  pro 
vided  by  means  of  the  note  he  had  despatched  to  her. 
Several  days  would  elapse  before  she  began  to  expect 
him,  so  that  he  had  plenty  of  time  to  reflect  upon  his 
future  course.  Meanwhile  he  resolved  to  ask  for  noth 
ing.  Indeed,  he  had  no  requirements.  He  had  money 
in  his  pockets  and  could  send  the  attendant  to  buy  any 
linen  he  needed  without  getting  it  from  his  home. 

He  was  in  a  state  of  mind  in  which  nothing  could  have 
pleased  him  better  than  solitary  imprisonment.  He  felt 
at  once  a  sense  of  rest  and  a  freedom  from  all  responsi 
bility  that  soothed  his  nerves  and  calmed  his  thoughts. 
For  many  days  he  had  lived  in  a  condition  bordering  on 
madness.  Every  interview  with  Corona  was  a  disap 
pointment,  and  brought  with  it  a  new  suffering.  Much 
as  he  would  have  dreaded  the  idea  of  being  separated 
from  her  for  any  length  of  time,  the  temporary  impossi 
bility  of  seeing  her  was  now  a  relief,  of  which  he  realised 
the  importance  more  and  more  as  the  hours  succeeded 

2  A 


386  SANT'  ILARIO. 

eacli  other.  There  are  times  when  nothing  but  a  forci 
ble  break  in  the  current  of  our  lives  can  restore  the  mind 
to  its  normal  balance.  Such  a  break,  painful  as  it  may 
be  at  first,  brings  with  it  the  long  lost  power  of  rest. 
Instead  of  feeling  the  despair  we  expect,  we  are  amazed 
at  our  own  indifference,  which  again  is  succeeded  by  a 
renewed  capacity  for  judging  facts  as  they  are,  and  by  a 
new  energy  to  mould  our  lives  upon  a  better  plan. 

Giovanni  neither  reflected  upon  his  position  nor  brooded 
over  the  probable  result  of  his  actions.  On  the  contrary, 
he  went  to  bed  and  slept  soundly,  like  a  strong  man  tired 
out  with  bodily  exertion.  He  slept  so  long  that  his 
attendant  at  last  woke  him,  entering  and  opening  the 
window.  The  morning  was  fine,  and  the  sun  streamed 
in  through  the  iron  grating.  Giovanni  looked  about  him, 
and  realised  where  he  was.  He  felt  calm  and  strong, 
and  was  inclined  to  laugh  at  the  idea  that  his  rashness 
would  have  any  dangerous  consequences.  Corona  doubt 
less  was  already  awake  too,  and  supposed  that  he  was  in 
the  country  shooting  wild  boar,  or  otherwise  amusing 
himself.  Instead  of  that  he  was  in  prison.  There  was 
no  denying  the  fact,  after  all,  but  it  was  strange  that  he 
should  not  care  to  be  at  liberty.  He  had  heard  of  the 
moral  sufferings  of  men  who  are  kept  in  confinement. 
No  matter  how  well  they  are  treated  they  grow  nervous 
and  careworn  and  haggard,  wearing  themselves  out  in  a 
perpetual  longing  for  freedom.  Giovanni,  on  the  contrary, 
as  he  looked  round  the  bright,  airy  room,  felt  that  he 
might  inhabit  it  for  a  year  without  once  caring  to  go  out 
into  the  world.  A  few  books  to  read,  the  means  of  writ 
ing  if  he  pleased  —  he  needed  nothing  else.  To  be  alone 
was  happiness  enough. 

He  ate  his  breakfast  slowly,  and  sat  down  in  an  old- 
fashioned  chair  to  smoke  a  cigarette  and  bask  in  the  sun 
shine  while  it  lasted.  It  was  not  much  like  prison,  and 
he  did  not  feel  like  a  man  arrested  for  murder.  He  was 
conscious  for  a  long  time  of  nothing  but  a  vague,  peace 
ful  contentment.  He  had  given  a  list  of  things  to  be 
bought,  including  a  couple  of  novels,  to  the  man  who 
waited  upon  him,  and  after  a  few  hours  everything  was 
brought.  The  day  passed  tranquilly,  and  when  he  went 
to  bed  he  smiled  as  he  blew  out  the  candle,  partly  at 
himself  and  partly  at  his  situation. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  887 

"My  friends  will  not  say  that  I  am  absolutely  lacking 
in  originality,"  he  reflected  as  he  went  to  sleep. 

On  the  morrow  he  read  less  and  thought  more.  In  the 
first  place  he  wondered  how  long  he  should  be  left  with 
out  any  communication  from  the  outside  world.  He 
wondered  whether  any  steps  had  been  taken  towards 
bringing  him  to  a  trial,  or  whether  the  cardinal  really 
knew  that  he  was  innocent,  and  was  merely  making  him 
act  out  the  comedy  he  had  himself  invented  and  begun. 
He  was  not  impatient,  but  he  was  curious  to  know  the 
truth.  It  was  now  the  third  day  since  he  had  seen 
Corona,  and  he  had  not  prepared  her  for  a  long  absence. 
If  he  heard  nothing  during  the  next  twenty-four  hours  it 
would  be  better  to  take  some  measures  for  relieving  her 
anxiety,  if  she  felt  any.  The  latter  reflection,  which 
presented  itself  suddenly,  startled  him  a  little.  Was  it 
possible  that  she  would  allow  a  week  to  slip  by  without 
expecting  to  hear  from  him  or  asking  herself  where  he 
was?  That  was  out  of  the  question.  He  admitted  the 
impossibility  of  such  indifference,  almost  in  spite  of 
himself.  He  was  willing,  perhaps,  to  think  her  utterly 
heartless  rather  than  accept  the  belief  in  an  affection 
which  went  no  farther  than  to  hope  that  he  might  be 
safe;  but  his  vanity  or  his  intuition,  it  matters  little 
which  of  the  two,  told  him  that  Corona  felt  more  than 
that.  And  yet  she  did  not  love  him.  He  sat  for  many 
hours,  motionless  in  his  chair,  trying  to  construct  the 
future  out  of  the  past,  an  effort  of  imagination  in  which 
he  failed  signally.  The  peace  of  his  solitude  was  less 
satisfactory  to  him  than  at  first,  and  he  began  to  suspect 
that  before  very  long  he  might  even  wish  to  return  to 
the  world.  Possibly  Corona  might  come  to  see  him. 
The  cardinal  would  perhaps  think  it  best  to  tell  her  what 
had  happened.  How  would  he  tell  it?  Would  he  let 
her  know  all?  The  light  faded  from  the  room,  and  the 
attendant  brought  his  evening  meal  and  set  two  candles 
upon  the  table. 

Hitherto  it  could  not  be  said  that  he  had  suffered.  On 
the  contrary,  his  character  had  regained  its  tone  after 
weeks  of  depression.  Another  day  was  ended,  and  he 
went  to  rest,  but  he  slept  less  soundly  than  before,  and 
on  the  following  morning  he  awoke  early.  The  monot- 


388  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

ony  of  the  existence  struck  him  all  at  once  in  its  reality. 
The  fourth  day  would  be  like  the  third,  and,  for  all  he 
knew,  hundreds  to  come  would  be  like  the  fourth  if  it 
pleased  his  Eminence  to  keep  him  a  prisoner.  Corona 
would  certainly  never  suspect  that  he  was  shut  up  in  the 
Holy  Office,  and  if  she  did,  she  might  not  be  able  to 
come  to  him.  Even  if  she  came,  what  could  he  say  to 
her?  That  he  had  committed  a  piece  of  outrageous  folly 
because  he  was  annoyed  at  her  disbelief  in  him  or  at  her 
coldness.  He  had  probably  made  himself  ridiculous  for 
the  first  time  in  his  life.  The  thought  was  the  reverse 
of  consoling.  Nor  did  it  contribute  to  his  peace  of  mind 
to  know  that  if  he  had  made  himself  a  laughing-stock, 
the  cardinal,  who  dreaded  ridicule,  would  certainly  re 
fuse  to  play  a  part  in  his  comedy,  and  would  act  with 
all  the  rigour  suitable  to  so  grave  a  situation.  He  might 
even  bring  his  prisoner  to  trial.  Giovanni  would  submit 
to  that,  rather  than  be  laughed  at,  but  the  alternative 
now  seemed  an  appalling  one.  In  his  disgust  of  life  on 
that  memorable  morning  he  had  cared  nothing  what 
became  of  him,  and  had  been  in  a  state  which  precluded 
all  just  appreciation  of  the  future.  His  enforced  solitude 
had  restored  his  faculties.  He  desired  nothing  less  than 
to  be  tried  for  murder,  because  he  had  taken  a  short  cut 
to  satisfy  his  wife's  caprice.  But  that  caprice  had  for 
its  object  the  liberty  of  poor  Faustina  Montevarchi.  At 
all  events,  if  he  had  made  himself  ridiculous,  the  ultimate 
purpose  of  his  folly  had  been  good,  and  had  been  acccom- 
plished. 

All  through  the  afternoon  he  paced  his  room,  alter 
nately  in  a  state  of  profound  dissatisfaction  with  himself, 
and  in  a  condition  of  anxious  curiosity  about  coming 
events.  He  scarcely  touched  his  food  or  noticed  the 
attendant  who  entered  half  a  dozen  times  to  perform  his 
various  offices.  Again  the  night  closed  in,  and  once  more 
he  lay  down  to  sleep,  dreading  the  morning,  and  hoping 
to  lose  himself  in  dreams.  The  fourth  day  was  like  the 
third,  indeed,  as  far  as  his  surroundings  were  concerned, 
but  he  had  not  foreseen  that  he  would  be  a  prey  to  such 
gnawing  anxiety  as  he  suffered,  still  less,  perhaps,  that 
he  should  grow  almost  desperate  for  a  sight  of  Corona. 
He  was  not  a  man  who  made  any  exhibition  of  his  feel- 


SANT'  ILABIO.  389 

ings  even  when  he  was  alone.  But  the  man  who  served 
him  noticed  that  when  he  entered  Giovanni  was  never 
reading,  as  he  had  always  been  doing  at  first.  He  was 
either  walking  rapidly  up  and  down  or  sitting  idly  in  the 
big  chair  by  the  window.  His  face  was  quiet  and  pale, 
even  solemn  at  times.  The  attendant  was  doubtless  accus 
tomed  to  sudden  changes  of  mood  in  his  prisoners,  for  he 
appeared  to  take  no  notice  of  the  alteration  in  Giovanni's 
manner. 

It  seemed  as  though  the  day  would  never  end.  To  a 
man  of  his  active  strength  to  walk  about  a  room  is  not 
exercise;  it  hardly  seems  like  motion  at  all,  and  yet 
Giovanni  found  it  harder  and  harder  to  sit  still  as  the 
hours  wore  on.  After  an  interval  of  comparative  peace, 
his  love  for  Corona  had  overwhelmed  him  again,  and 
with  tenfold  force.  To  be  shut  up  in  a  cell  without  the 
possibility  of  seeing  her,  was  torture  such  as  he  had 
never  dreamt  of  in  his  whole  life.  By  a  strange  revul 
sion  of  feeling  it  appeared  to  him  that  by  taking  her  so 
suddenly  at  her  word  he  had  again  done  her  an  injustice. 
The  process  of  reasoning  by  which  he  arrived  at  this  con 
clusion  was  not  clear  to  himself,  and  probably  could  not 
be  made  intelligible  to  any  one  else.  He  had  assuredly 
sacrificed  himself  unhesitatingly,  and  at  first  the  action 
had  given  him  pleasure.  But  this  was  destroyed  by  the 
thought  of  the  possible  consequences.  He  asked  whether 
he  had  the  right  to  satisfy  her  imperative  demand  for 
Faustina's  freedom  by  doing  that  which  might  possibly 
cause  her  annoyance,  even  though  it  should  bring  no 
serious  injury  to  any  one.  The  time  passed  very  slowly, 
and  towards  evening  he  began  to  feel  as  he  had  felt 
before  he  had  taken  the  fatal  step  which  had  placed  him 
beyond  Corona's  reach,  restless,  miserable,  desperate. 
At  last  it  was  night,  and  he  was  sitting  before  his  soli 
tary  meal,  eating  hardly  anything,  staring  half  uncon 
sciously  at  the  closed  window  opposite. 

The  door  opened  softly,  but  he  did  not  look  round, 
supposing  the  person  entering  to  be  the  attendant. 
Suddenly,  there  was  the  rustle  of  a  woman's  dress  in 
the  room,  and  at  the  same  moment  the  door  was  shut. 
He  sprang  to  his  feet,  stood  still  a  moment,  and  then 
uttered  a  cry  of  surprise.  Corona  stood  beside  him, 


390  SANT'  ILARIO. 

very  pale,  looking  into  his  eyes.  She  had  worn  a  thick 
veil,  and  on  coining  in  had  thrown  it  back  upon  her  head 
—  the  veils  of  those  days  were  long  and  heavy,  and  fell 
about  the  head  and  neck  like  a  drapery. 

"  Corona !  "  Giovanni  cried,  stretching  out  his  hands 
towards  her.  Something  in  her  face  prevented  him  from 
throwing  his  arms  round  her,  something  not  like  her 
usual  coldness  and  reproachful  look  that  kept  him  back. 

"Giovanni  —  was  it  kind  to  leave  me  so?"  she  asked, 
without  moving  from  her  place. 

The  question  corresponded  so  closely  with  his  own 
feelings  that  he  had  anticipated  it,  though  he  had  no 
answer  ready.  She  knew  all,  and  was  hurt  by  what  he 
had  done.  What  could  he  say?  The  reasons  that  had 
sent  him  so  boldly  into  danger  no  longer  seemed  even 
sufficient  for  an  excuse.  The  happiness  he  had  antici 
pated  in  seeing  her  had  vanished  almost  before  it  had 
made  itself  felt.  His  first  emotion  was  bitter  anger 
against  the  cardinal.  No  one  else  could  have  told  her, 
for  no  one  else  knew  what  he  had  done  nor  where  he  was. 
Giovanni  thought,  and  with  reason,  that  the  great  man 
might  have  spared  his  wife  such  a  blow. 

"I  believed  I  was  doing  what  was  best  when  I  did  it," 
he  answered,  scarcely  knowing  what  to  say. 

"  Was  it  best  to  leave  me  without  a  word,  except  a 
message  of  excuse  for  others  ?  " 

"  For  you  —  was  it  not  better?  For  me  —  what  does  it 
matter?  Should  I  be  happier  anywhere  else?" 

"Have  I  driven  you  from  your  home,  Giovanni?" 
asked  Corona,  with  a  strange  look  in  her  dark  eyes.  Her 
voice  trembled. 

"No,  not  you,"  he  answered,  turning  away  and  begin 
ning  to  walk  up  and  down  by  the  force  of  the  habit  he 
had  acquired  during  the  last  two  or  three  days.  "Not 
you, "  he  repeated  more  than  once  in  a  bitter  tone. 

Corona  sank  down  upon  the  chair  he  had  left,  and 
buried  her  face  in  her  hands,  as  though  overcome  by  a 
great  and  sudden  grief.  Giovanni  stopped  before  her 
and  looked  at  her,  not  clearly  understanding  what  was 
passing  in  her  mind. 

"Why  are  you  so  sorry?"  he  asked.  "Has  a  separa 
tion  of  a  few  days  changed  you?  Are  you  sorry  for  me?  " 


SANT'  ILARIO.  391 

''"Why  did  you  come  here?"  she  exclaimed,  instead 
of  answering  his  question.  "Why  here,  of  all  places?" 

"I  had  no  choice.  The  cardinal  decided  the  matter 
for  me." 

"The  cardinal?  Why  do  you  confide  in  him?  You 
never  did  before.  I  may  be  wrong,  but  I  do  not  trust 
him,  kind  as  he  has  always  been.  If  you  wanted  advice, 
you  might  have  gone  to  Padre  Filippo " 

"Advice?     I  do  not  understand  you,  Corona." 

"  Did  you  not  go  to  the  cardinal  and  tell  him  that  you 
were  very  unhappy  and  wanted  to  make  a  retreat  in  some 
quiet  place  where  nobody  could  find  you?  And  did  he 
not  advise  you  to  come  here,  promising  to  keep  your 
secret,  and  authorising  you  to  stay  as  long  as  you  pleased? 
That  is  what  he  told  me." 

"  He  told  you  that?  "  cried  Giovanni  in  great  astonish 
ment. 

"Yes  —  that  and  nothing  more.  He  came  to  see  me 
late  this  afternoon.  He  said  that  he  feared  lest  I  should 
be  anxious  about  your  long  absence,  and  that  he  thought 
himself  justified  in  telling  me  where  you  were  and  in 
giving  me  a  pass,  in  case  I  wanted  to  see  you.  Besides, 
if  it  is  not  all  as  he  says,  how  did  you  come  here?  " 

"You  do  not  know  the  truth?  You  do  not  know  what 
I  did?  You  do  not  guess  why  I  am  in  the  Holy  Office?  " 

"I  know  only  what  he  told  me,"  answered  Corona, 
surprised  by  Giovanni's  questions. 

But  Giovanni  gave  no  immediate  explanation.  He 
paced  the  floor  in  a  state  of  excitement  in  which  she  had 
never  seen  him,  clasping  and  unclasping  his  fingers  ner 
vously,  and  uttering  short,  incoherent  exclamations.  As 
she  watched  him  a  sensation  of  fear  crept  over  her,  but 
she  did  not  ask  him  any  question.  He  stopped  suddenly 
again. 

"  You  do  not  know  that  I  am  in  prison?  " 

"  In  prison ! "  She  rose  with  a  sharp  cry  and  seized 
his  hands  in  hers. 

"Do  not  be  frightened,  dear,"  he  said  in  an  altered 
tone.  "I  am  perfectly  innocent.  After  all,  you  know 
it  is  a  prison." 

"  Ah,  Giovanni !  "  she  exclaimed  reproachfully,  "  how 
could  you  say  such  a  dreadful  thing,  even  in  jest?"  She 


392  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

had  dropped  his  hands  again,  and  drew  back  a  step  as 
she  spoke. 

"  It  is  not  a  jest.  It  is  earnest.  Do  not  start.  I  will 
tell  you  just  what  happened.  It  is  best,  after  all. 
When  I  left  you  at  the  Termini,  I  saw  that  you  had  set 
your  heart  on  liberating  poor  Faustina.  I  could  not  find 
any  way  of  accomplishing  what  you  desired,  and  I  saw 
that  you  thought  I  was  not  doing  .my  best  for  her  free 
dom.  I  went  directly  to  the  cardinal  and  gave  myself 
up  in  her  place." 

"As  a  hostage  —  a  surety?"  asked  Corona,  breath 
lessly. 

"  No.  He  would  not  have  accepted  that,  for  he  was 
prejudiced  against  her.  I  gave  myself  up  as  the  mur 
derer.  " 

He  spoke  quite  calmly,  as  though  he  had  been  narrat 
ing  a  commonplace  occurrence.  For  an  instant  she  stood 
before  him,  dumb  and  horror-struck.  Then  with  a  great 
heart-broken  cry  she  threw  her  arms  round  him  and 
clasped  him  passionately  to  her  breast. 

"  My  beloved !     My  beloved !  " 

For  some  moments  she  held  him  so  closely  that  he 
could  neither  move  nor  see  her  face,  but  the  beating  of 
his  heart  told  him  that  a  great  change  had  in  that  instant 
come  over  his  life.  The  cry  had  come  from  her  soul, 
irresistibly,  spontaneously.  There  was  an  accent  in  the 
two  words  she  repeated  which  he  had  never  hoped  to 
hear  again.  He  had  expected  that  she  would  reproach 
him  for  his  madness.  Instead  of  that,  his  folly  had 
awakened  the  love  that  was  not  dead,  though  it  had  been 
so  desperately  wounded. 

Presently  she  drew  back  a  little  and  looked  into  his 
eyes,  a  fierce  deep  light  burning  in  her  own. 

"  I  love  you, "  she  said,  almost  under  her  breath. 

A  wonderful  smile  passed  over  his  face,  illuminating 
the  dark,  stern  lines  of  it  like  a  ray  of  heavenly  light. 
Then  the  dusky  eyelids  slowly  closed,  as  though  by  their 
own  weight,  his  head  fell  back,  and  his  lips  turned 
white.  She  felt  the  burden  of  his  body  in  her  arms,  and 
but  for  her  strength  he  would  have  fallen  to  the  floor. 
She  reeled  on  her  feet,  holding  him  still,  and  sank  down 
until  she  knelt  and  his  head  rested  on  her  knee.  Her 


SANT'  ILARIO.  393 

heart  stood  still  as  she  listened  for  the  sound  of  his  faint 
breathing.  Had  his  unconsciousness  lasted  longer  she 
would  have  fainted  herself.  But  in  a  moment  his  eyes 
opened  again  with  an  expression  such  as  she  had  seen  in 
them  once  or  twice  before,  but  in  a  less  degree. 

"  Corona  —  it  is  too  much !  "  he  said  softly,  almost 
dreamily.  Then  his  strength  returned  in  an  instant,  like 
a  strong  steel  bow  that  has  been  bent  almost  to  breaking. 
He  scarcely  knew  how  it  was  that  the  position  was 
changed  so  that  he  was  standing  on  his  feet  and  clasping 
her  as  she  had  clasped  him.  Her  tears  were  flowing  fast, 
but  there  was  more  joy  in  them  than  pain. 

"How  could  you  do  it?"  she  asked  at  length,  looking 
up.  "And  oh,  Giovanni!  what  will  be  the  end  of  it? 
Will  not  something  dreadful  happen?" 

"  What  does  anything  matter  now,  darling?  " 

At  last  they  sat  down  together,  hand  in  hand,  as  of 
old.  It  was  as  though  the  last  two  months  had  been 
suddenly  blotted  out.  As  Giovanni  said,  nothing  could 
matter  now.  And  yet  the  situation  was  far  from  clear. 
Giovanni  understood  well  enough  that  the  cardinal  had 
wished  to  leave  him  the  option  of  telling  his  wife  what 
had  occurred,  and,  if  he  chose  to  do  so,  of  telling  her  in 
his  own  language.  He  was  grateful  for  the  tact  the 
statesman  had  displayed,  a  tact  which  seemed  also  to 
show  Giovanni  the  cardinal's  views  of  the  case.  He 
had  declared  that  he  was  desperate.  The  cardinal  had 
concluded  that  he  was  unhappy.  He  had  said  that  he 
did  not  care  what  became  of  him.  The  cardinal  had 
supposed  that  he  would  be  glad  to  be  alone,  or  at  all 
events  that  it  would  be  good  for  him  to  have  a  certain 
amount  of  solitude.  If  his  position  were  in  any  way 
dangerous,  the  great  man  would  surely  not  have  thought 
of  sending  Corona  to  his  prisoner  as  he  had  done.  He 
would  have  prepared  her  himself  against  any  shock. 
And  yet  he  was  undeniably  in  prison,  with  no  immediate 
prospect  of  liberty. 

"  You  cannot  stay  here  any  longer, "  said  Corona  when 
they  were  at  last  able  to  talk  of  the  immediate  future. 

"  I  do  not  see  how  I  am  to  get  out, "  Giovanni  answered, 
with  a  smile. 

"  I  will  go  to  the  cardinal " 


394  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

"  It  is  of  no  use.  He  probably  guesses  the  truth,  but 
he  is  not  willing  to  be  made  ridiculous  by  me  or  by  any 
one.  He  will  keep  me  here  until  there  can  be  a  trial, 
or  until  he  finds  the  real  culprit.  He  is  obstinate.  I 
know  him." 

"It  is  impossible  that  he  should  think  of  such  a 
thing !  "  exclaimed  Corona  indignantly. 

"  I  am  afraid  it  is  very  possible.  But,  of  course,  it  is 
only  a  matter  of  time  —  a  few  days  at  the  utmost.  If 
worst  comes  to  worst  I  can  demand  an  inquiry,  I  sup 
pose,  though  I  do  not  see  how  I  can  proclaim  my  own 
innocence  without  hurting  Faustina.  She  was  liberated 
because  I  put  myself  in  her  place  —  it  is  rather  compli 
cated." 

"Tell  me,  Giovanni,"  said  Corona,  "what  did  you  say 
to  the  cardinal?  You  did  not  really  say  that  you  mur 
dered  Monte  varchi?" 

"No.  I  said  I  gave  myself  up  as  the  murderer,  and  I 
explained  how  I  might  have  done  the  deed.  I  did  more, 
I  pledged  my  honour  that  Faustina  was  innocent." 

"  But  you  were  not  sure  of  it  yourself " 

"  Since  you  had  told  me  it  was  true,  I  believed  it, "  he 
answered  simply. 

"  Thank  you,  dear " 

"ISTo.  Do  not  thank  me  for  it.  I  could  not  help 
myself.  I  knew  that  you  were  sure  —  are  you  sure  of 
something  else,  Corona?  Are  you  as  certain  as  you  were 
of  that?  " 

"How  can  you  ask?  But  you  are  right  —  you  have 
the  right  to  doubt  me.  You  will  not,  though,  will  you? 
Hear  me,  dear,  while  I  tell  you  the  whole  story." 

She  slipped  from  her  chair  and  knelt  before  him,  as 
though  she  were  to  make  a  confession.  Then  she  took 
his  hands  and  looked  up  lovingly  into  his  face.  The 
truth  rose  in  her  eyes. 

"Forgive  me,  Giovanni.  Yes,  you  have  much  to  for 
give.  I  did  not  know  myself.  When  you  doubted  me,  I 
felt  as  though  I  had  nothing  left  in  life,  as  though  you 
would  never  again  believe  in  me.  I  thought  I  did  not 
love  you.  I  was  wrong.  It  was  only  my  miserable 
vanity  that  was  wounded,  and  that  hurt  me  so.  I  felt 
that  my  love  was  dead,  that  you  yourself  were  dead  and 


SANT'  ILARIO.  395 

that  another  man  had  taken  your  place.  Ah,  I  could 
have  helped  it!  Had  I  known  you  better,  dear,  had  I 
been  less  mistaken  in  myself,  all  would  have  been  differ 
ent.  But  I  was  foolish  —  no,  I  was  unhappy.  Every 
thing  was  dark  and  dreadful.  Oh,  my  darling,  I  thought 
I  could  tell  what  I  felt  —  I  cannot !  Forgive  me,  only 
forgive  me,  and  love  me  as  you  did  long  ago.  I  will 
never  leave  you,  not  if  you  stay  here  for  ever,  only  let 
me  love  you  as  I  will!  " 

"It  is  not  for  me  to  forgive,  sweetheart,"  said  Gio 
vanni,  bending  down  and  kissing  her  sweet  dark  hair. 
"  It  is  for  you " 

"  But  I  would  so  much  rather  think  it  my  fault,  dear, " 
she  answered,  drawing  his  face  down  to  hers.  It  was  a 
very  womanly  impulse  that  made  her  take  the  blame 
upon  herself. 

"  You  must  not  think  anything  so  unreasonable,  Corona. 
I  brought  all  the  harm  that  came,  from  the  first  moment." 

He  would  have  gone  on  to  accuse  himself,  obstinate 
and  manlike,  recapitulating  the  whole  series  of  events. 
But  she  would  not  let  him.  Once  more  she  sat  beside 
him  and  held  his  hand  in  hers.  They  talked  incoher 
ently  and  it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  if  they  arrived  at 
no  very  definite  conclusion  after  a  very  long  conversation. 
They  were  still  sitting  together  when  the  attendant 
entered  and  presented  Giovanni  with  a  large  sealed 
letter,  bearing  the  Apostolic  arms,  and  addressed  merely 
to  the  number  of  Giovanni's  cell. 

"  There  is  an  answer, "  said  the  man,  and  then  left  the 
room. 

"  It  is  probably  the  notice  of  the  trial,  or  something  of 
the  kind,"  observed  Giovanni,  suddenly  growing  very 
grave  as  he  broke  the  seal.  He  wished  it  might  have 
come  at  any  other  time  than  the  present.  Corona  held 
her  breath  and  watched  his  face  while  he  read  the  lines 
written  upon  one  of  the  two  papers  he  took  from  the 
envelope.  Suddenly  the  colour  came  to  his  cheeks  and 
his  eyes  brightened  with  a  look  of  happiness  and  sur 
prise. 

"I  am  free!"  he  cried,  as  he  finished.  "Free  if  I 
will  sign  this  paper!  Of  course  I  will!  I  will  sign 
anything  he  likes." 


396  SANT'  ILARIO. 

The  envelope  contained  a  note  from  the  cardinal,  in 
his  own  hand,  to  the  effect  that  suspicion  had  fallen  upon 
another  person  and  that  Giovanni  was  at  liberty  to  return 
to  his  home  if  he  would  sign  the  accompanying  docu 
ment.  The  latter  was  very  short,  and  set  forth  that 
Giovanni  Saracinesca  bound  himself  upon  his  word  to 
appear  in  the  trial  of  the  murderer  of  Prince  Monte - 
varchi,  if  called  upon  to  do  so,  and  not  to  leave  Eome 
until  the  matter  was  finally  concluded  and  set  at  rest. 

He  took  the  pen  that  lay  on  the  table  and  signed  his 
name  in  a  broad  firm  hand,  a  fact  the  more  notable 
because  Corona  was  leaning  over  his  shoulder,  watching 
the  characters  as  he  traced  them.  He  folded  the  paper 
and  placed  it  in  the  open  envelope  which  accompanied  it. 
The  cardinal  was  a  man  of  details.  He  thought  it  possi 
ble  that  the  document  might  be  returned  open  for  lack 
of  the  means  to  seal  it.  He  did  not  choose  that  his 
secrets  should  become  the  property  of  the  people  about 
the  Holy  Office.  It  was  a  specimen  of  his  forethought 
in  small  things  which  might  have  an  influence  upon 
great  ones. 

When  Giovanni  had  finished,  he  rose  and  stood  beside 
Corona.  Each  looked  into  the  other's  eyes  and  for  a 
moment  neither  saw  very  clearly.  They  said  little 
more,  however,  until  the  attendant  entered  again. 

"You  are  at  liberty,"  he  said  briefly,  and  without  a 
word  began  to  put  together  the  few  small  things  that 
belonged  to  his  late  prisoner. 

Half  an  hour  later  Giovanni  was  seated  at  dinner  at 
his  father's  table.  The  old  gentleman  greeted  him  with 
a  half-savage  growl  of  satisfaction. 

"  The  prodigal  has  returned  to  get  a  meal  while  there 
is  one  to  be  had,"  he  remarked.  "I  thought  you  had 
gone  to  Paris  to  leave  the  agreeable  settlement  of  our 
affairs  to  Corona  and  me.  Where  the  devil  have  you 
been?" 

"  I  have  been  indulging  in  the  luxury  of  a  retreat  in 
a  religious  house, "  answered  Giovanni  with  perfect  truth. 

Corona  glanced  at  him  and  both  laughed  happily,  as 
they  had  not  laughed  for  many  days  and  weeks.  Sara 
cinesca  looked  incredulously  across  the  table  at  his  son. 

"You  chose  a  singular  moment  for  your  devotional 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  397 

exercises,"  he  said.  "Where  will  piety  hide  herself 
next,  I  wonder?  As  long  as  Corona  is  satisfied,  I  am. 
It  is  her  business." 

"  I  am  perfectly  satisfied,  I  assure  you, "  said  Corona, 
whose  black  eyes  were  full  of  light. 

Giovanni  raised  his  glass,  looked  at  her  and  smiled 
lovingly.  Then  he  emptied  it  to  the  last  drop  and  set 
it  down  without  a  word. 

"Some  secret,  I  suppose,"  said  the  old  gentleman 
gruffly. 


CHAPTER   XXVIII. 

Arnoldo  Meschini  was  not,  perhaps,  insane  in  the 
ordinary  sense  of  the  word;  that  is  to  say,  he  would 
probably  have  recovered  the  normal  balance  of  his  facul 
ties  if  he  could  have  been  kept  from  narcotics  and 
stimulants,  and  if  he  could  have  been  relieved  from  the 
distracting  fear  of  discovery  which  tormented  him  when 
he  was  not  under  the  influence  of  one  or  the  other.  But 
the  latter  condition  was  impossible,  and  it  was  the 
extremity  of  his  terror  which  almost  forced  him  to  keep 
his  brain  in  a  clouded  state.  People  have  been  driver* 
mad  by  sudden  fright,  and  have  gradually  lost  their 
intellect  through  the  constant  presence  of  a  fear  from 
which  there  is  no  escape.  A  man  who  is  perpetually 
producing  an  unnatural  state  of  his  mind  by  swallowing 
doses  of  brandy  and  opium  may  not  be  insane  in  theory; 
in  actual  fact,  he  may  be  a  dangerous  madman.  As  one 
day  followed  another  Meschini  found  it  more  and  more 
impossible  to  exist  without  his  two  comforters.  The 
least  approach  to  lucidity  made  him  almost  frantic.  He 
fancied  every  man  a  spy,  every  indifferent  glance  a  look 
full  of  meaning.  Before  long  the  belief  took  possession 
of  him  that  he  was  to  be  made  the  victim  of  some  horri 
ble  private  vengeance.  San  Giacinto  was  not  the  man, 
he  thought,  to  be  contented  with  sending  him  to  the 
galleys  for  life.  Few  murderers  were  executed  in  those 
days,  and  it  would  be  a  small  satisfaction  to  the  Monte- 


398  SANT'  ILARIO. 

varchi  to  know  that  Arnoldo  had  merely  been  transferred 
from  his  study  of  the  library  catalogue  to  the  breaking 
of  stones  with  a  chain  gang  at  Civitavecchia.  It  was 
more  likely  that  they  would  revenge  themselves  more 
effectually.  His  disordered  imagination  saw  horrible 
visions.  San  Giacinto  might  lay  a  trap  for  him,  might 
simply  come  at  dead  of  night  and  take  him  from  his 
room  to  some  deep  vault  beneath  the  palace.  What  could 
he  do  against  such  a  giant?  He  fancied  himself  before 
a  secret  tribunal  in  the  midst  of  which  towered  San 
Giacinto's  colossal  figure.  He  could  hear  the  deep  voice 
he  dreaded  pronouncing  his  doom.  He  was  to  be  torn 
to  shreds  piecemeal,  burnt  by  a  slow  fire,  flayed  alive  by 
those  enormous  hands.  There  was  no  conceivable  horror 
of  torture  that  did  not  suggest  itself  to  him  at  such 
times.  It  is  true  that  when  he  went  to  bed  at  night  he 
was  generally  either  so  stupefied  by  opium  or  so  intoxi 
cated  with  strong  drink  that  he  forgot  even  to  lock  his 
door.  But  during  the  day  he  was  seldom  so  far  under 
the  power  of  either  as  not  to  suffer  from  his  own  hideous 
imaginings.  One  day,  as  he  dragged  his  slow  pace  along 
a  narrow  street  near  the  fountain  of  Trevi,  his  eyes  were 
arrested  by  an  armourer's  window.  It  suddenly  struck 
him  that  he  had  no  weapon  of  defence  in  case  San  Gia 
cinto  or  his  agents  came  upon  him  unawares.  And  yet  a 
bullet  well  placed  would  make  an  end  even  of  such  a 
Hercules  as  the  man  he  feared.  He  paused  and  looked 
anxiously  up  and  down  the  street.  It  was  a  dark  day 
and  a  fine  rain  was  falling.  There  was  nobody  about 
who  could  recognise  him,  and  he  might  not  have  another 
such  opportunity  of  providing  himself  unobserved  with 
what  he  wanted.  He  entered  the  shop  and  bought 
himself  a  revolver.  The  man  showed  him  how  to  load 
it  and  sold  him  a  box  of  cartridges.  He  dropped  the 
firearm  into  one  of  the  pockets  of  his  coat,  and  smiled  as 
he  felt  how  comfortably  it  balanced  the  bottle  he  carried 
in  the  other.  Then  he  slunk  out  of  the  shop  and  pursued 
his  walk. 

The  idea  of  making  capital  out  of  the  original  deeds 
concerning  the  Saracinesca,  which  had  presented  itself 
to  him  soon  after  the  murder,  recurred  frequently  to  his 
mind ;  but  he  felt  that  he  was  in  no  condition  to  elaborate 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  399 

it,  and  promised  himself  to  attend  to  the  matter  when 
he  was  better.  For  he  fancied  that  he  was  ill  and  that 
his  state  would  soon  begin  to  improve.  To  go  to  San 
Giacinto  now  was  out  of  the  question.  It  would  have 
been  easier  for  him  to  climb  the  cross  on  the  summit  of 
St.  Peter's,  with  his  shaken  nerves  and  trembling  limbs, 
than  to  face  the  man  who  inspired  in  him  such  untold 
dread.  He  could,  of  course,  take  the  alternative  which 
was  open  to  him,  and  go  to  old  Saracinesca.  Indeed, 
there  were  moments  when  he  could  almost  have  screwed 
his  courage  to  the  point  of  making  such  an  attempt,  but 
his  natural  prudence  made  him  draw  back  from  an  inter 
view  in  which  he  must  incur  a  desperate  risk  unless  he 
had  a  perfect  command  of  his  facilities.  To  write  what 
he  had  to  say  would  be  merely  to  give  a  weapon  against 
himself,  since  he  could  not  treat  the  matter  by  letter 
without  acknowledging  his  share  in  the  forgeries.  The 
only  way  to  accomplish  his  purpose  would  be  to  extract 
a  solemn  promise  of  secrecy  from  Saracinesca,  together 
with  a  guarantee  for  his  own  safety,  and  to  obtain  these 
conditions  would  need  all  the  diplomacy  he  possessed. 
Bad  as  he  was,  he  had  no  experience  of  practical  black 
mailing,  and  he  would  be  obliged  to  compose  his  speeches 
beforehand  with  scrupulous  care,  and  with  the  wisest 
forethought.  For  the  present,  such  work  was  beyond 
his  power,  but  when  he  was  half  drunk  he  loved  to  look 
at  the  ancient  parchments  and  build  golden  palaces  in 
the  future.  When  he  was  strong  again,  and  calm,  he 
would  realise  all  his  dreams,  and  that  time,  he  felt  sure, 
could  not  be  far  removed. 

Nevertheless  the  days  succeeded  each  other  with  ap 
palling  swiftness,  and  nothing  was  done.  By  impercep 
tible  degrees  his  horror  of  San  Giacinto  began  to  invade 
his  mind  even  when  it  was  most  deadened  by  drink.  So 
long  as  an  idea  is  new  and  has  not  really  become  a  habit 
of  the  brain,  brandy  will  drive  it  away,  but  the  moment 
must  inevitably  come  when  the  stimulant  loses  its  power 
to  obscure  the  memory  of  the  thing  dreaded.  Opium  will 
do  it  more  effectually,  but  even  that  does  not  continue  to 
act  for  ever.  The  time  comes  when  the  predominant 
thought  of  the  waking  hours  reproduces  itself  during  the 
artificial  sleep  with  fearful  force,  so  that  the  mind  at 


400  SANT'  ILARIO. 

last  obtains  no  rest  at  all.  That  is  the  dangerous  pe 
riod,  preceding  the  decay  and  total  collapse  of  the  intel 
lect  under  what  is  commonly  called  the  fixed  idea.  In 
certain  conditions  of  mind,  and  notably  with  criminals 
who  fear  discovery,  the  effects  of  opium  change  very 
quickly;  the  downward  steps  through  which  it  would  take 
months  for  an  ordinary  individual  to  pass  are  descended 
with  alarming  rapidity,  and  the  end  is  a  thousand  times 
more  horrible.  Meschini  could  not  have  taken  the  doses 
which  a  confirmed  opium-eater  swallows  with  indiffer 
ence,  but  the  result  produced  was  far  greater  in  propor 
tion  to  the  amount  of  the  narcotic  he  consumed.  Before 
the  week  which  followed  the  deed  was  ended,  he  began 
to  see  visions  when  he  was  apparently  awake.  Shape 
less,  slimy  things  crawled  about  the  floor  of  his  room, 
upon  his  table,  even  upon  the  sheets  of  his  bed.  Dark 
shadows  confronted  him,  and  changed  their  outlines 
unexpectedly.  Forms  rose  out  of  the  earth  at  his  feet 
and  towered  all  at  once  to  the  top  of  the  room,  taking  the 
appearance  of  San  Giacinto  and  vanishing  suddenly  into 
the  air.  The  things  he  saw  came  like  instantaneous 
flashes  from  another  and  even  more  terrible  world,  disap 
pearing  at  first  so  quickly  as  to  make  him  believe  them 
only  the  effects  of  the  light  and  darkness,  like  the  ghost 
he  had  seen  in  his  coat.  In  the  beginning  there  was 
scarcely  anything  alarming  in  them,  but  as  he  started 
whenever  they  came,  he  generally  took  them  as  a  warn 
ing  that  he  needed  more  brandy  to  keep  him  up.  In  the 
course  of  a  day  or  two,  however,  these  visions  assumed 
more  awful  proportions,  and  he  found  it  impossible  to 
escape  from  them  except  in  absolute  stupor.  It  would 
have  been  clear  to  any  one  that  this  state  of  things  could 
not  last  long.  There  was  scarcely  an  hour  in  which  he 
knew  exactly  what  he  was  doing,  and  if  his  strange  be 
haviour  escaped  observation  this  was  due  to  his  solitary 
way  of  living.  He  did  not  keep  away  from  the  palace 
during  the  whole  day,  from  a  vague  idea  that  his  absence 
might  be  thought  suspicious.  He  spent  a  certain  number 
of  hours  in  the  library,  doing  nothing,  although  he  care 
fully  spread  out  a  number  of  books  before  him  and  dipped 
his  pen  into  the  ink  from  time  to  time,  stupidly,  mechan 
ically,  as  though  his  fingers  could  not  forget  the  habit  so 


SANT'  ILARIO.  401 

long  familiar  to  them.  His  eyes,  which  had  formerly 
been  unusually  bright,  had  grown  dull  and  almost  bleared, 
though  they  glanced  at  times  very  quickly  from  one  part 
of  the  room  to  another.  That  was  when  he  saw  strange 
things  moving  in  the  vast  hall,  between  him  and  the 
bookcases.  When  they  had  disappeared,  his  glassy  look 
returned,  so  that  his  eyeballs  seemed  merely  to  reflect 
the  light,  as  inanimate  objects  do,  without  absorbing  it, 
and  conveying  it  to  the  seat  of  vision.  His  face  grew 
daily  more  thin  and  ghastly.  It  was  by  force  of  custom 
that  he  stayed  so  long  in  the  place  where  he  had  spent  so 
much  of  his  life.  The  intervals  of  semi-lucidity  seemed 
terribly  long,  though  they  were  in  reality  short  enough, 
and  the  effort  to  engage  his  attention  in  work  helped  him 
to  live  through  them.  He  had  never  gone  down  to  the 
apartments  where  the  family  lived,  since  he  had  knelt 
before  the  catafalque  on  the  day  after  the  murder.  In 
deed,  there  was  no  reason  why  he  should  go  there,  and 
no  one  noticed  his  absence.  He  was  a  very  insignificant 
person  in  the  palace.  As  for  any  one  coming  to  find  him 
among  the  books,  nothing  seemed  more  improbable.  The 
library  was  swept  out  in  the  early  morning  and  no  one 
entered  it  again  during  the  twenty-four  hours.  He  never 
went  out  into  the  corridor  now,  but  left  his  coat  upon  a 
chair  near  him,  when  he  remembered  to  bring  it.  As  a 
sort  of  precautionary  measure  against  fear,  he  locked  the 
door  which  opened  upon  the  passage  when  he  came  in  the 
morning,  unlocking  it  again  when  he  went  away  in  order 
that  the  servant  who  did  the  sweeping  might  be  able  to 
get  in. 

The  Princess  Montevarchi  was  still  dangerously  ill, 
and  Faustina  had  not  been  willing  to  leave  her.  San 
Giacinto  and  Flavia  were  not  living  in  the  house,  but 
they  spent  a  good  deal  of  time  there,  because  San  Gia 
cinto  had  ideas  of  his  own  about  duty,  to  which  his  wife 
was  obliged  to  submit  even  if  she  did  not  like  them. 
Faustina  was  neither  nervous  nor  afraid  of  solitude,  and 
was  by  no  means  in  need  of  her  sister's  company,  so  that 
when  the  two  were  together  their  conversation  was  not 
always  of  the  most  affectionate  kind.  The  consequence 
was  that  the  young  girl  tried  to  be  alone  as  much  as  pos 
sible  when  she  was  not  at  her  mother's  bedside.  One 

2B 


402  SANT'  ILARIO. 

day,  having  absolutely  nothing  to  do,  she  grew  desperate. 
It  was  very  hard  not  to  think  of  Aiiastase,  when  she  was 
in  the  solitude  of  her  own  room,  with  no  occupation  to 
direct  her  mind.  A  week  earlier  she  had  been  only  too 
glad  to  have  the  opportunity  of  dreaming  away  the  short 
afternoon  undisturbed,  letting  her  girlish  thoughts  wan 
der  among  the  rose  gardens  of  the  future  with  the  image 
of  the  man  she  loved  so  dearly,  and  who  was  yet  so  far 
removed  from  her.  Now  she  could  not  think  of  him 
without  reflecting  that  her  father's  death  had  removed 
one  very  great  obstacle  to  her  marriage.  She  was  by  no 
means  of  a  very  devout  or  saintly  character,  but,  on  the 
other  hand,  she  had  a  great  deal  of  what  is  called  heart, 
and  to  be  heartless  seemed  to  her  almost  worset  han  to 
be  bad.  In  excuse  of  such  very  untheological  doctrines  it 
must  be  allowed  that  her  ideas  concerning  wickedness  in 
general  were  very  limited  indeed,  if  not  altogether  child 
ish  in  their  extreme  simplicity.  It  is  certain,  however, 
that  she  would  have  thought  it  far  less  wrong  to  run 
away  with  Gouache  in  spite  of  her  family  than  to  enter 
tain  any  thought  which  could  place  her  father's  tragic 
death  in  the  light  of  a  personal  advantage.  If  she  had 
nothing  to  do  she  could  not  help  thinking  of  Anastase, 
and  if  she  thought  of  him,  she  could  not  escape  the  con 
clusion  that  it  would  be  far  easier  for  her  to  marry  him, 
now  that  the  old  prince  was  out  of  the  way.  It  was 
therefore  absolutely  necessary  to  find  some  occupation. 

At  first  she  wandered  aimlessly  about  the  house  until 
she  was  struck,  almost  for  the  first  time,  by  the  anti 
quated  stiffness  of  the  arrangement,  and  began  to  ask 
herself  whether  it  would  be  respectful  to  the  memory  of 
her  father,  and  to  her  mother,  to  try  and  make  a  few 
changes.  Corona's  home  was  very  different.  She  would 
like  to  take  that  for  a  model.  But  one  or  two  attempts 
showed  her  the  magnitude  of  the  task  she  had  under 
taken.  She  was  ashamed  to  call  the  servants  to  help 
her  —  it  would  look  as  though  there  were  to  be  a  recep 
tion  in  the  house.  Her  ideas  of  what  could  take  place 
in  the  Palazzo  Montevarchi  did  not  go  beyond  that  staid 
form  of  diversion.  She  was  ashamed,  however,  and  re 
flected,  besides,  that  she  was  only  the  youngest  of  the 
family  and  had  no  right  to  take  the  initiative  in  the  mat- 


SANT'  ILARIO.  403 

ter  of  improvements.  The  time  hung  very  heavily  upon 
her  hands.  She  tried  to  teach  herself  something  about 
painting  by  looking  at  the  pictures  on  the  walls,  spend 
ing  a  quarter  of  an  hour  before  each  with  conscientious 
assiduity.  But  this  did  not  succeed  either.  The  men  in 
the  pictures  all  took  the  shape  of  Monsieur  Gouache  in 
his  smartest  uniform  and  the  women  all  looked  disagree 
ably  like  Flavia.  Then  -she  thought  of  the  library, 
which  was  the  only  place  of  importance  in  the  house 
which  she  had  not  lately  visited.  She  hesitated  a  mo 
ment  only,  considering  how  she  could  best  reach  it  with 
out  passing  through  the  study,  and  without  going  up  the 
grand  staircase  to  the  outer  door.  A  very  little  reflection 
showed  her  that  she  could  get  into  the  corridor  from  a 
passage  near  her  own  room.  In  a  few  minutes  she  was 
at  the  entrance  to  the  great  hall,  trying  to  turn  the  heavy 
carved  brass  handle  of  the  latch.  To  her  surprise  she 
could  not  open  the  door,  which  was  evidently  fastened 
from  within.  Then  as  she  shook  it  in  the  hope  that 
some  one  would  hear  her,  a  strange  cry  reached  her  ears, 
like  that  of  a  startled  animal,  accompanied  by  the  shuf 
fling  of  feet.  She  remembered  Meschini's  walk,  and  un 
derstood  that  it  was  he. 

"  Please  let  me  in !  "  she  called  out  in  her  clear  young 
voice,  that  echoed  back  to  her  from  the  vaulted  chamber. 

Again  she  heard  the  shuffling  footsteps,  which  this 
time  came  towards  her,  and  a  moment  afterwards  the 
door  opened  and  the  librarian's  ghastly  face  was  close 
before  her.  She  drew  back  a  little.  She  had  forgotten 
that  he  was  so  ugly,  she  thought,  or  perhaps  she  would 
not  have  cared  to  see  him.  It  would  have  been  foolish, 
moreover,  to  go  away  after  coining  thus  far. 

"  I  want  to  see  the  library, "  she  said  quietly,  after  she 
had  made  up  her  mind.  "Will  you  show  it  to  me?" 

"Favorisca,  Excellency,"  replied  Meschini  in  a  broken 
voice.  He  had  been  frightened  by  the  noise  at  the  door, 
and  the  contortion  of  his  face  as  he  tried  to  smile  was 
hideous  to  see.  He  bowed  low,  however,  and  closed  the 
door  after  she  had  entered.  Scarcely  knowing  what  he 
did,  he  shuffled  along  by  her  side  while  she  looked  about 
the  library,  gazing  at  the  long  rows  of  books,  bound  all 
alike,  that  stretched  from  end  to  end  of  many  of  the 


404  SANT'  ILARIO. 

shelves.  The  place  was  new  to  her,  for  she  had  not  been 
in  it  more  than  two  or  three  times  in  her  life,  and  she 
felt  a  sort  of  unexplained  awe  in  the  presence  of  so  many 
thousands  of  volumes,  of  so  much  written  and  printed 
wisdom  which  she  could  never  hope  to  understand.  She 
had  come  with  a  vague  idea  that  she  should  find  some 
thing  to  read  that  should  be  different  from  the  novels 
she  was  not  allowed  to  touch.  She  realised  all  at  once 
that  she  knew  nothing  of  what  had  been  written  in  all 
the  centuries  whose  literature  was  represented  in  the  vast 
collection.  She  hardly  knew  the  names  of  twenty  books 
out  of  the  hundreds  of  millions  that  the  world  contained. 
But  she  could  ask  Meschini.  She  looked  at  him  again, 
and  his  face  repelled  her.  Nevertheless,  she  was  too 
kindhearted  not  to  enter  into  conversation  with  the  lonely 
man  whom  she  had  so  rarely  seen,  but  who  was  one  of 
the  oldest  members  of  her  father's  household. 

"You  have  spent  your  life  here,  have  you  not?"  she 
asked,  for  the  sake  of  saying  something. 

"Nearly  thirty  years  of  it,"  answered  Meschini  in  a 
muffled  voice.  Her  presence  tortured  him  beyond  ex 
pression.  "That  is  a  long  time,  and  I  am  not  an  old 
man." 

"And  are  you  always  alone  here?  Do  you  never  go 
out?  What  do  you  do  all  day?  " 

"I  work  among  the  books,  Excellency.  There  are 
twenty  thousand  volumes  here,  enough  to  occupy  a  man's 
time." 

"Yes  —  but  how?  Do  you  have  to  read  them  all?" 
asked  Faustina  innocently.  "  Is  that  your  work?  " 

"  I  have  read  many  more  than  would  be  believed,  for 
my  own  pleasure.  But  my  work  is  to  keep  them  in  order, 
to  see  that  there  is  no  variation  from  the  catalogue,  so 
that  when  learned  men  come  to  make  inquiries  they  may 
find  what  they  want.  I  have  also  to  take  care  of  all  the 
books,  to  see  that  they  do  not  suffer  in  any  way.  They 
are  very  valuable.  There  is  a  fortune  here." 

Somehow  he  felt  less  nervous  when  he  began  to  speak 
of  the  library  and  its  contents  and  the  words  came  more 
easily  to  him.  With  a  little  encouragement  he  might 
even  become  loquacious.  In  spite  of  his  face,  Faustina 
began  to  feel  an  interest  in  him. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  405 

"  It  must  be  very  hard  work, "  she  remarked.  "  Do  you 
like  it?  Did  you  never  want  to  do  anything  else?  I 
should  think  you  would  grow  tired  of  being  always 
alone." 

"I  am  very  patient,"  answered  Meschini  humbly. 
"  And  I  am  used  to  it.  I  grew  accustomed  to  the  life 
when  I  was  young." 

"  You  say  the  collection  is  valuable.  Are  there  any 
very  beautiful  books?  I  would  like  to  see  some  of  them." 

The  fair  young  creature  sat  down  upon  one  of  the  high 
carved  chairs  at  the  end  of  a  table.  '  Meschini  went  to 
the  other  side  of  the  hall  and  unlocked  one  of  the  drawers 
which  lined  the  lower  part  of  the  bookcases  to  the  height 
of  three  or  four  feet.  Each  was  heavily  carved  with  the 
Montevarchi  arms  in  high  relief.  It  was  in  these  recep 
tacles  that  the  precious  manuscripts  were  kept  in  their 
cases.  He  returned  bringing  a  small  square  volume  of 
bound  manuscript,  and  laid  it  before  Faustina. 

"This  is  worth  an  enormous  sum,"  he  said.  "It  is  the 
only  complete  one  in  the  world.  There  is  an  imperfect 
copy  in  the  library  of  the  Vatican." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  the  Montevarchi  Dante,  the  oldest  in  existence." 

Faustina  turned  over  the  leaves  curiously,  and  admired 
the  even  writing  though  she  could  not  read  many  of  the 
words,  for  the  ancient  characters  were  strange  to  her. 
It  was  a  wonderful  picture  that  the  couple  made  in  the 
great  hall.  On  every  side  the  huge  carved  bookcases  of 
walnut,  black  with  age,  rose  from  the  floor  to  the  spring 
of  the  vault,  their  dark  faces  reflected  in  the  highly-pol 
ished  floor  of  coloured  marble.  Across  the  ancient  tables 
a  ray  of  sunlight  fell  from  the  high  clere-story  window. 
In  the  centre,  the  two  figures  with  the  old  manuscript 
between  them;  Faustina's  angel  head  in  a  high  light 
against  the  dusky  background,  as  she  bent  forward  a 
little,  turning  the  yellow  pages  with  her  slender,  trans 
parent  fingers,  the  black  folds  of  her  full  gown  making 
heavy  lines  of  drapery,  graceful  by  her  grace,  and  ren 
dered  less  severe  by  a  sort  of  youthfulness  that  seemed 
to  pervade  them,  and  that  emanated  from  herself.  Be 
side  her,  the  bent  frame  of  the  broken  down  librarian, 
in  a  humble  and  respectful  attitude,  his  long  arms  hang- 


SANT'  ILARIO. 

ing  down  by  his  sides,  his  shabby  black  coat  almost 
dragging  to  his  heels,  his  head  bent  forward  as  he  looked 
at  the  pages.  All  his  features  seemed  to  have  grown 
more  sharp  and  yellow  and  pointed,  and  there  was  now 
a  deep  red  flush  in  the  upper  part  of  his  cheeks.  A  mo 
mentary  light  shone  in  his  gray  eyes,  from  beneath  the 
bushy  brows,  a  light  of  intelligence  such  as  had  formerly 
characterised  them  especially,  brought  back  now  perhaps 
by  the  effort  to  fix  his  attention  upon  the  precious  book. 
His  large,  coarse  ears  appeared  to  point  themselves  for 
ward  like  those  of  an  animal,  following  the  direction  of 
his  sight.  In  outward  appearance  he  presented  a  strange 
mixture  of  dilapidation,  keenness,  and  brutality.  A 
week  had  changed  him  very  much.  A  few  days  ago 
most  people  would  have  looked  at  him  with  a  sort  of 
careless  compassion.  Now,  there  was  about  him  some 
thing  distinctly  repulsive.  Beside  Faustina's  youth  and 
delicacy,  and  freshness,  he  hardly  seemed  like  a  human 
being. 

"I  suppose  it  is  a  very  wonderful  thing,"  said  the 
young  girl  at  last,  "  but  I  do  not  know  enough  to  under 
stand  its  value.  Do  my  brothers  ever  come  to  the 
library?  "  She  leaned  back  from  the  volume  and  glanced 
at  Meschini's  face,  wondering  how  heaven  could  have 
made  anything  so  ugly. 

"No.  They  never  come,"  replied  the  librarian,  draw 
ing  the  book  towards  him  instinctively,  as  he  would  have 
done  if  his  visitor  had  been  a  stranger,  who  might  try  to 
steal  a  page  or  two  unless  he  were  watched. 

"  But  my  poor  father  was  very  fond  of  the  books,  was 
he  not  ?  Did  he  not  often  come  to  see  you  here?  " 

She  was  thinking  so  little  of  Meschini  that  she  did  not 
see  that  he  turned  suddenly  white  and  shook  like  a  man 
in  an  ague.  It  was  what  he  had  feared  all  along,  ever 
since  she  had  entered  the  room.  She  suspected  him  and 
had  come,  or  had  perhaps  been  sent  by  San  Giacinto  to 
draw  him  into  conversation  and  to  catch  him  in  some 
thing  which  could  be  interpreted  to  be  a  confession  of 
his  crime.  Had  that  been  her  intention,  his  behaviour 
would  have  left  little  doubt  in  her  mind  as  to  the  truth 
of  the  accusation.  His  face  betrayed  him,  his  uncon 
trollable  fear,  his  frightened  eyes  and  trembling  limbs. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  407 

But  she  had  only  glanced  at  him,  and  her  sight  wandered 
to  the  bookcases  for  a  moment.  When  she  looked  again 
he  was  moving  away  from  her,  along  the  table.  She  was 
surprised  to  see  that  his  step  was  uncertain,  and  that  he 
reeled  against  the  heavy  piece  of  furniture  and  grasped 
it  for  support.  She  started  a  little  but  did  not  rise. 

"Are  you  ill?"  she  asked.     "Shall  I  call  some  one?" 

He  made  no  answer,  but  seemed  to  recover  himself  at 
the  sound  of  her  voice,  for  he  shuffled  away  and  disap 
peared  behind  the  high  carved  desk  on  which  lay  the 
open  catalogue.  She  thought  she  saw  a  flash  of  light 
reflected  from  some  smooth  surface,  and  immediately 
afterwards  she  heard  a  gurgling  sound,  which  she  did 
not  understand.  Meschini  was  fortifying  himself  with 
a  draught.  Then  he  reappeared,  walking  more  steadily. 
He  had  received  a  severe  shock,  but,  as  usual,  he  had 
not  the  courage  to  run  away,  conceiving  that  flight  would 
inevitably  be  regarded  as  a  proof  of  guilt. 

"  I  am  not  well,"  he  said  in  explanation  as  he  returned. 
"I  am  obliged  to  take  medicine  continually.  I  beg  your 
Excellency  to  forgive  me." 

"I  am  sorry  to  hear  that,"  answered  Faustina  kindly. 
"  Can  we  do  nothing  for  you?  Have  you  all  you  need?  " 

"Everything,  thank  you.     I  shall  soon  be  well." 

"I  hope  so,  I  am  sure.  What  was  I  saying?  Oh  —  I 
was  asking  whether  my  poor  father  came  often  to  the 
library.  Was  he  fond  of  the  books?  " 

"  His  Excellency  —  Heaven  give  him  glory !  —  he  was 
a  learned  man.  Yes,  he  came  now  and  then."  Meschini 
took  possession  of  the  manuscript  and  carried  it  off  rather 
suddenly  to  its  place  in  the  drawer.  He  was  a  long 
time  in  locking  it  up.  Faustina  watched  him  with  some 
curiosity. 

"You  were  here  that  day,  were  you  not?"  she  asked, 
as  he  turned  towards  her  once  more.  The  question  was 
a  natural  one,  considering  the  circumstances. 

"  I  think  your  Excellency  Avas  present  when  I  was 
examined  by  the  prefect, "  answered  Meschini  in  a  curi 
ously  disagreeable  tone. 

"True,"  said  Faustina.  "You  said  you  had  been  here 
all  day  as  usual.  I  had  forgotten.  How  horrible  it 
was.  And  you  saw  nobody,  you  heard  nothing?  But  I 
suppose  it  is  too  far  from  the  study." 


408  SANT'  ILARIO. 

The  librarian  did  not  answer,  but  it  was  evident  from 
his  manner  that  he  was  very  much  disturbed.  Indeed, 
he  fancied  that  his  worst  fears  were  realised,  and  that 
Faustina  was  really  trying  to  extract  information  from 
him  for  his  own  conviction.  Her  thoughts  were  actually 
very  far  from  any  such  idea.  She  would  have  considered 
it  quite  as  absurd  to  accuse  the  poor  wretch  before  her  as 
she  had  thought  it  outrageous  that  she  herself  should  be 
suspected.  Her  father  had  always  seemed  to  her  a  very 
imposing  personage,  and  she  could  not  conceive  that  he 
should  have  met  his  death  at  the  hands  of  such  a  miser 
able  creature  as  Arnoldo  Meschini,  who  certainly  had  not 
the  outward  signs  of  physical  strength  or  boldness.  He, 
however,  understood  her  words  very  differently  and 
stood  still,  half  way  between  her  and  the  bookcases,  ask 
ing  himself  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to  take 
immediate  steps  for  his  safety.  His  hand  was  behind 
him,  feeling  for  the  revolver  in  the  pocket  of  his  long 
coat.  Faustina  was  singularly  fearless,  by  nature,  but  if 
she  had  guessed  the  danger  of  her  position  she  would 
probably  have  effected  her  escape  very  quickly,  instead 
of  continuing  the  conversation. 

"It  is  a  very  dreadful  mystery,"  she  said,  rising  from 
her  chair  and  walking  slowly  across  the  polished  marble 
floor  until  she  stood  before  a  row  of  great  volumes  of  which 
the  colour  had  attracted  her  eye.  "It  is  the  duty  of  us 
all  to  try  and  explain  it.  Of  course  we  shall  know  all 
about  it  some  day,  but  it  is  very  hard  to  be  patient.  Do 
you  know?"  she  turned  suddenly  and  faced  Meschini, 
speaking  with  a  vehemence  not  usual  for  her.  "  They 
suspected  me,  as  if  I  could  have  done  it,  I,  a  weak  girl ! 
And  yet  —  if  I  had  the  man  before  me  —  the  man  who 
murdered  him  —  I  believe  I  would  kill  him  with  my 
hands!" 

She  moved  forward  a  little,  as  she  spoke,  and  tapped 
her  small  foot  upon  the  pavement,  as  though  to  empha 
sise  her  words.  Her  soft  brown  eyes  flashed  with  right 
eous  anger,  and  her  cheek  grew  pale  at  the  thought  of 
avenging  her  father.  There  must  have  been  something 
very  fierce  in  her  young  face,  for  Meschini's  heart  failed 
him,  and  his  nerves  seemed  to  collapse  all  at  once.  He 
tried  to  draw  back  from  her,  slipped  and  fell  upon  his 


SANT'  ILARIO.  409 

knees  with  a  sharp  cry  of  fear.  Even  then,  Faustina  did 
not  suspect  the  cause  of  his  weakness,  but  attributed  it 
to  the  illness  of  which  he  had  spoken.  She  sprang  for 
ward  and  attempted  to  help  the  poor  creature  to  his  feet, 
but  instead  of  making  an  effort  to  rise,  he  seemed  to  be 
grovelling  before  her,  uttering  incoherent  exclamations 
of  terror. 

"  Lean  on  me  ! "  said  Faustina,  putting  out  her  hand. 
"What  is  the  matter?  Oh!  Are  you  going  to  die !" 

"  Oh !  oh !  Do  not  hurt  me  —  pray  —  in  God's  name !  " 
cried  Meschini,  raising  his  eyes  timidly. 

"Hurt  you?  No!  Why  should  I  hurt  you?  You  are 
ill  —  we  will  have  the  doctor.  Try  and  get  up  —  try  and 
get  to  a  chair." 

Her  tone  reassured  him  a  little,  and  her  touch  also,  as 
she  did  her  best  to  raise  him  to  his  feet.  He  struggled 
a  little  and  at  last  stood  up,  leaning  upon  the  bookcase, 
and  panting  with  fright. 

"It  is  nothing,"  he  tried  to  say,  catching  his  breath  at 
every  syllable.  "  I  am  better  —  my  nerves  —  your  Excel 
lency  —  ugh !  what  a  coward  I  am !  " 

The  last  exclamation,  uttered  in  profound  disgust  of 
his  own  weakness,  struck  Faustina  as  very  strange. 

"Did  I  frighten  you?"  she  asked  in  surprise.  "I  am 
very  sorry.  Now  sit  down  and  I  will  call  some  one  to 
come  to  you." 

"No,  no!  Please  —  I  would  rather  be  alone!  I  can 
walk  quite  well  now.  If  —  if  your  Excellency  will 
excuse  me,  I  will  go  to  my  room.  I  have  more  medicine 
—  I  will  take  it  and  I  shall  be  better." 

"Can  you  go  alone?  Are  you  sure?"  asked  Faustina 
anxiously.  But  even  while  she  spoke  he  was  moving 
towards  the  door,  slowly  and  painfully  at  first,  as  it 
seemed,  though  possibly  a  lingering  thought  of  propriety 
kept  him  from  appearing  to  run  away.  The  young  girl 
walked  a  few  steps  after  him,  half  fearing  that  he  might 
fall  again.  But  he  kept  his  feet  and  reached  the  thresh 
old.  Then  he  made  a  queer  attempt  at  a  bow,  and 
mumbled  some  words  that  Faustina  could  not  hear.  In 
another  moment  he  had  disappeared,  and  she  was  alone. 

For  some  minutes  she  looked  at  the  closed  door  through 
which  he  had  gone  out.  Then  she  shook  her.  head  a 


410  SANT'  ILAEIO. 

little  sadly,  and  slowly  went  back  to  her  room  by  the 
way  she  had  come.  It  was  all  very  strange,  she  thought, 
but  his  illness  might  account  for  it.  She  would  have 
liked  to  consult  San  Giacinto,  but  though  she  was  out 
wardly  on  good  terms  with  him,  and  could  not  help  feel 
ing  a  sort  of  respect  for  his  manly  character,  the  part  he 
had  played  in  attempting  to  separate  her  from  Gouache 
had  prevented  the  two  from  becoming  intimate.  She 
said  nothing  to  any  one  about  her  interview  with  Mes- 
chini  in  the  library,  and  no  one  even  guessed  that  she 
had  been  there. 


CHAPTER   XXIX. 

In  spite  of  his  haste  to  settle  all  that  remained  to  be 
settled  with  regard  to  the  restitution  of  the  property  to 
San  Giacinto,  Saracinesca  found  it  impossible  to  wind  up 
the  affair  in  a  week  as  he  had  intended.  It  was  a  very 
complicated  matter  to  separate  from  his  present  fortune 
that  part  of  it  which  his  cousin  woxild  have  inherited 
from  his  great-grandfather.  A  great  deal  of  wealth  had 
come  into  the  family  since  that  time  by  successive  mar 
riages,  and  the  management  of  the  original  estate  had 
not  been  kept  separate  from  the  administration  of  the 
dowries  which  had  from  time  to  time  been  absorbed  into 
it.  The  Saracinesca,  however,  were  orderly  people,  and 
the  books  had  -been  kept  for  generations  with  that  aston 
ishing  precision  of  detail  which  is  found  in  the  great 
Roman  houses,  and  which  surpasses,  perhaps,  anything 
analogous  which  is  to  be  found  in  modern  business.  By 
dint  of  perseverance  and  by  employing  a  great  number 
of  persons  in  making  the  calculations,  the  notaries  had 
succeeded  in  preparing  a  tolerably  satisfactory  schedule 
in  the  course  of  a  fortnight,  which  both  the  principal 
parties  agreed  to  accept  as  final.  The  day  fixed  for  the 
meeting  and  liquidation  of  the  accounts  was  a  Saturday, 
a  fortnight  and  tAvo  days  after  the  murder  of  Prince 
Montevarchi.  A  question  arose  concerning  the  place  of 
meeting. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  411 

Saracinesca  proposed  that  San  Giacinto  and  the  notaries 
should  come  to  the  Palazzo  Saracinesca.  He  was  ready 
to  brave  out  the  situation  to  the  end,  to  face  his  fate 
until  it  held  nothing  more  in  store  for  him,  even  to 
handing  over  the  inventory  of  all  that  was  no  longer  his 
in  the  house  where  he  had  been  born.  His  boundless 
courage  and  almost  brutal  frankness  would  doubtless 
have  supported  him  to  the  last,  even  through  such  a  trial 
to  his  feelings,  but  San  Giacinto  refused  to  agree  to  the 
proposal.  He  repeatedly  stated  that  he  wished  the  old 
prince  to  inhabit  the  palace  through  his  lifetime,  and 
that  he  should  even  make  every  effort  to  induce  him  to 
retain  the  title.  Both  of  these  offers  were  rejected 
courteously,  but  firmly.  In  the  matter  of  holding  the 
decisive  meeting  in  the  palace,  however,  San  Giacinto 
made  a  determined  stand.  He  would  not  on  any  account 
appear  in  the  light  of  the  conqueror  coming  to  take 
possession  of  the  spoil.  His  wife  had  no  share  in  this 
generous  sentiment.  She  would  have  liked  to  enjoy  her 
triumph  to  the  full,  for  she  was  exceedingly  ambitious, 
and  was,  moreover,  not  very  fond  of  the  Saracinesca. 
As  she  expressed  it,  she  felt  when  she  was  with  any  of 
them,  from  the  old  prince  to  Corona,  that  they  must  be 
thinking  all  the  time  that  she  was  a  very  foolish  young 
person.  San  Giacinto's  action  was  therefore  spontane 
ous,  and  if  it  needs  explanation  it  may  be  ascribed  to  an 
inherited  magnanimity,  to  a  certain  dignity  which  had 
distinguished  him  even  as  a  young  man  from  the  low 
class  in  which  he  had  grown  up.  He  was,  indeed,  by  no 
means  a  type  of  the  perfect  nobleman ;  his  conduct  in  the 
affair  between  Faustina  and  Gouache  had  shown  that. 
He  acted  according  to  his  lights,  and  was  not  ashamed  to 
do  things  which  his  cousin  Giovanni  would  have  called 
mean.  But  he  was  manly,  for  all  that,  and  if  he  owed 
some  of  his  dignity  to  great  stature  and  to  his  indomi 
table  will,  it  was  also  in  a  measure  the  outward  sign  of  a 
good  heart  and  of  an  innate  sense  of  justice.  There  had 
as  yet  been  nothing  dishonest  in  his  dealings  since  he 
had  come  to  Rome.  He  had  acquired  a  fortune  which 
enabled  him  to  take  the  position  that  was  lawfully  his. 
He  liked  Flavia,  and  had  bargained  for  her  with  her 
father,  afterwards  scrupulously  fulfilling  the  terms  of 


412  SANT'  ILARIO. 

the'  contract.  He  had  not  represented  himself  to  be 
what  he  was  not,  and  he  had  taken  no  unfair  advantage 
of  any  one  for  his  own  advancement.  In  the  matter  of 
the  suit  he  was  the  dupe  of  old  Montevarchi,  so  far  as 
the  deeds  were  concerned,  but  he  was  perfectly  aware 
that  he  actually  represented  the  elder  branch  of  his 
family.  It  is  hard  to  imagine  how  any  man  in  his  posi 
tion  could  have  done  less  than  he  did;  and  now  that  it 
had  come  to  a  final  settlement  he  was  really  anxious  to 
cause  his  vanquished  relations  as  little  humiliation  as 
possible.  To  go  to  their  house  was  like  playing  the  part 
of  a  bailiff.  To  allow  them  to  come  to  his  dwelling 
suggested  the  journey  to  Canossa.  The  Palazzo  Monte 
varchi  was  neutral  ground,  and  he  proposed  that  the 
formalities  should  be  fulfilled  there.  Saracinesca  con 
sented  readily  enough  and  the  day  was  fixed. 

The  notaries  arrived  at  ten  o'clock  in  the  morning, 
accompanied  by  clerks  who  were  laden  with  books, 
inventories  and  rolls  of  manuscript.  The  study  had  been 
selected  for  the  meeting,  both  on  account  of  its  seclusion 
from  the  rest  of  the  house  and  because  it  contained  an 
immense  table  which  would  serve  for  the  voluminous 
documents,  all  of  which  must  be  examined  and  verified. 
San  Giacinto  himself  awaited  the  arrival  of  the  Saracin 
esca  in  the  great  reception-room.  He  had  sent  his  wife 
away,  for  he  was  in  reality  by  no  means  so  calm  as  he 
appeared .  to  be,  and  her  constant  talk  disturbed  him. 
He  paced  the  long  room  with  regular  steps,  his  head 
erect,  his  hands  behind  him,  stopping  from  time  to  time 
to  listen  for  the  footsteps  of  those  he  expected.  It  was 
the  great  day  of  his  life.  Before  night,  he  was  to  be 
Prince  Saracinesca. 

The  moments  that  precede  a  great  triumph  are  very 
painful,  especially  if  a  man  has  looked  forward  to  the 
event  for  a  long  time.  No  matter  how  sure  he  is  of  the 
result,  something  tells  him  that  it  is  uncertain.  A 
question  may  a,rise,  he  cannot  guess  whence,  by.  which 
all  may  be  changed.  He  repeats  to  himself  a  hundred, 
times  that  failure  is  impossible,  but  he  is  not  at  rest. 
The  uncertainty  of  all  things,  even  of  his  own  life, 
appears  very  clearly  before  his  eyes.  His  heart  beats 
fast  and  slow  from  one  minute  to  another.  At  the  very 


SANT'  ILARIO.  413 

instant  when  he  is  dreaming  of  the  future,  the  possibility 
of  disappointment  breaks  in  upon  his  thoughts.  He 
cannot  explain  it,  but  he  longs  to  be  beyond  the  decisive 
hour.  In  San  Giacinto's  existence,  the  steps  from 
obscurity  to  importance  and  fortune  had,  of  late,  been 
so  rapidly  ascended  that  he  was  almost  giddy  with  suc 
cess.  For  the  first  time  since  he  had  left  his  old  home 
in  Aquila,  he  felt  as  though  he  had  been  changed  from 
his  own  self  to  some  other  person. 

At  last  the  door  opened,  and  Saracinesca,  Giovanni, 
and  Corona  entered  the  room.  San  Giacinto  was  sur 
prised  to  see  Giovanni's  wife  on  an  occasion  when  the 
men  alone  of  the  family  were  concerned,  but  she  explained 
that  she  had  come  to  spend  the  morning  with  Faustina, 
and  would  wait  till  everything  was  finished.  The  meet 
ing  was  not  a  cordial  one,  though  both  parties  regarded 
it  as  inevitable.  If  Saracinesca  felt  any  personal  resent 
ment  against  San  Giacinto  he  knew  that  it  was  unreason 
able  and  he  had  not  the  bad  taste  to  show  it.  He  was 
silent,  but  courteous  in  his  manner.  Giovanni,  strange 
to  say,  seemed  wholly  indifferent  to  what  was  about  to 
take  place. 

"  I  hope,"  said  San  Giacinto,  when  all  four  were  seated, 
"that  you  will  consent  to  consider  this  as  a  mere  for 
mality.  I  have  said  as  much  through  my  lawyers,  but 
I  wish  to  repeat  it  myself  in  better  words  than  they  used." 

"Pardon  me,"  answered  Saracinesca,  "if  I  suggest 
that  we  should  not  discuss  that  matter.  We  are  sensible 
of  your  generosity  in  making  such  offers,  but  we  do  not 
consider  it  possible  to  accept  them." 

"I  must  ask  your  indulgence  if  I  do  not  act  upon  your 
suggestion,"  returned  San  Giacinto.  "Even  if  there  is 
no  discussion  I  cannot  consent  to  proceed  to  business 
until  I  have  explained  what  I  mean.  If  the  suit  has 
been  settled  justly  by  the  courts,  it  has  not  been  decided 
with  perfect  justice  as  regards  its  consequences.  I  do  not 
deny,  and  I  understand  that  you  do  not  expect  me  to  act 
otherwise,  that  it  has  been  my  intention  to  secure  for 
myself  and  for  my  children  the  property  and  the  personal 
position  abandoned  by  my  ancestor.  I  have  obtained 
what  I  wanted  and  what  was  my  right,  and  I  have  to 
thank  you  for  the  magnanimity  you  have  displayed  in  not 


414  SANT'  ILARIO. 

attempting  to  contest  a  claim  against  which  you  might 
have  brought  many  arguments,  if  not  much  evidence.  The 
affair  having  been  legally  settled,  it  is  for  us  to  make 
whatever  use  of  it  seems  better  in  our  own  eyes.  To 
deprive  you  of  your  name  and  of  the  house  in  which  you 
were  born  and  bred,  would  be  to  offer  you  an  indignity 
such  as  I  never  contemplated." 

"  You  cannot  be  said  to  deprive  us  of  what  is  not  ours, 
by  any  interpretation  of  the  word  with  which  I  am  ac 
quainted,"  said  Saracinesca  in  a  tone  which  showed  that 
he  was  determined  to  receive  nothing. 

"I  am  a  poor  grammarian,"  answered  San  Giacinto 
gravely,  and  without  the  slightest  affectation  of  humility. 
"I  was  brought  up  a  farmer,  and  was  only  an  innkeeper 
until  lately.  I  cannot  discuss  with  you  the  subtle  mean 
ings  of  words.  To  my  mind  it  is  I  who  am  taking  from 
you  that  which,  if  not  really  yours,  you  have  hitherto 
had  every  right  to  own  and  to  make  use  of.  I  do  not 
attempt  to  explain  my  thought.  I  only  say  that  I  will 
neither  take  your  name  nor  live  in  your  house  while  you 
are  alive.  I  propose  a  compromise  which  I  hope  you  will 
be  willing  to  accept." 

"  I  fear  that  will  be  impossible.    My  mind  is  made  up." 

"  I  propose, "  continued  San  Giacinto,  "  that  you  remain 
Prince  Saracinesca,  that  you  keep  Saracinesca  itself,  and 
the  palace  here  in  Rome  during  your  lifetime,  which  I 
trust  may  be  a  long  one.  After  your  death  everything 
returns  to  us.  My  cousin  Giovanni  and  the  Princess 
Sant'  Ilario " 

"You  may  call  me  Corona,  if  you  please,"  said  the 
princess  suddenly.  Her  eyes  were  fixed  on  his  face,  and 
she  was  smiling. 

Both  Saracinesca  and  Giovanni  looked  at  her  in  sur 
prise.  It  seemed  strange  to  them  that  she  should  choose 
such  a  moment  for  admitting  San  Giacinto  to  a  famil 
iarity  he  had  never  before  enjoyed.  But  for  some  time 
she  had  felt  a  growing  respect  for  the  ex-innkeeper, 
which  was  quickened  by  his  present  generosity.  San 
Giacinto's  swarthy  face  grew  a  shade  darker  as  the  blood 
mounted  to  his  lean  cheeks.  Corona  had  given  him  one 
of  the  first  sensations  of  genuine  pleasure  he  had  ever 
experienced  in  his  rough  life. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  415 

"  Thank  you,"  he  said  simply.  "  You  two,  I  was  going 
to  say,  have  palaces  of  your  own  and  cannot  have  such 
close  associations  with  the  old  places  as  one  who  has 
owned  them  during  so  many  years.  You,"  he  continued, 
turning  to  the  old  prince,  "will,  I  hope,  accept  an  ar 
rangement  which  cannot  affect  your  dignity  and  which 
will  give  me  the  greatest  satisfaction." 

"I  am  very  much  obliged  to  you,"  answered  Saracin- 
esca  promptly.  "  You  are  very  generous,  but  I  cannot 
take  what  you  offer." 

"  If  you  feel  that  you  would  be  taking  anything  from 
me,  look  at  it  from  a  different  point  of  view.  You  would 
be  conferring  a  favour  instead  of  accepting  one.  Con 
sider  my  position,  when  I  have  taken  your  place.  It 
will  not  be  a  pleasant  one.  The  world  will  abuse  me 
roundly,  and  will  say  I  have  behaved  abominably  towards 
you.  Do  you  fancy  that  I  shall  be  received  as  a  substi 
tute  for  the  Prince  Saracinesca  your  friends  have  known 
so  long?  Do  you  suppose  that  the  vicissitudes  of  my  life 
are  unknown,  and  that  no  one  will  laugh  behind  my  back 
and  point  at  me  as  the  new,  upstart  prince?  Few  people 
know  me  in  Rome,  and  if  I  have  any  friends  besides  you, 
I  have  not  been  made  aware  of  the  fact.  Pray  consider 
that  in  doing  what  I  ask,  you  would  be  saving  me  from 
very  unpleasant  social  consequences." 

"I  should  be  doing  so  at  the  cost  of  my  self-respect," 
replied  the  old  man  firmly.  "  Whatever  the  consequences 
are  to  you,  the  means  of  bearing  them  will  be  in  your 
hands.  You  will  have  no  lack  of  friends  to-morrow,  or 
at  least  of  amiable  persons  anxious  to  call  themselves  by 
that  name.  They  will  multiply  this  very  night,  like 
mushrooms,  and  will  come  about  you  freshly  shaved  and 
smiling  to-morrow  morning." 

"  I  am  afraid  you  do  not  understand  me,"  said  San  Gia- 
cinto.  "  I  can  leave  you  the  title  and  yet  take  one 
which  will  serve  as  well.  You  would  call  yourself 
Prince  Saracinesca  and  I  should  be  Saracinesca  di  San 
Giacinto.  As  for  the  palace  and  the  place  in  the  moun 
tains,  they  are  so  insignificant  as  compared  with  the  rest 
that  it  could  not  hurt  your  self-respect  to  live  in  them. 
Can  you  not  persuade  your  father?"  He  turned  to  Gio 
vanni  who  had  not  spoken  yet. 


416  SANT'  ILARTO. 

"  You  are  very  good  to  make  the  proposal, "  he  answered. 
"  T  cannot  say  more  than  that.  I  agree  with  my  father." 

A  silence  followed  which  lasted  several  minutes. 
Corona  looked  from  one  to  the  other  of  the  three  men, 
wondering  how  the  matter  would  end.  She  understood 
both  parties  better  than  they  understood  each  other. 
She  sympathised  with  the  refusal  of  her  husband  and  his 
father.  To  accept  such  an  offer  would  put  them  in  a 
position  of  obligation  towards  San  Giacinto  which  she 
knew  they  could  never  endure,  and  which  would  be  gall 
ing  to  herself.  On  the  other  hand  she  felt  sorry  for 
their  cousin,  who  was  evidently  trying  to  do  what  he  felt 
was  right  and  generous,  and  was  disappointed  that  his 
advances  should  be  repelled.  He  was  very  much  in 
earnest,  or  he  would  not  have  gone  so  far  as  to  suggest 
that  it  would  be  a  favour  to  him  if  they  took  what  he 
offered.  He  was  so  simple,  and  yet  so  dignified  withal, 
that  she  could  not  help  liking  him.  It  was  not  clear  to 
her,  however,  that  she  could  mend  matters  by  interfering, 
nor  by  offering  advice  to  the  one  or  sympathy  to  the  other. 

Saracinesca  himself  was  the  first  to  break  the  silence. 
It  seemed  to  him  that  everything  had  been  said,  and  that 
nothing  now  remained  but  to  fulfil  the  requisite  formali 
ties. 

"  Shall  we  proceed  to  business?  "  he  inquired,  as  though 
ignoring  all  the  previous  conversation.  "  I  believe  we 
have  a  great  deal  to  do,  and  the  time  is  passing." 

San  Giacinto  made  no  reply,  but  rose  gravely  and  made 
a  gesture  signifying  that  he  would  show  the  way  to  the 
study.  Saracinesca  made  a  show  of  refusing  to  go  out 
first,  then  yielded  and  went  on.  San  Giacinto  waited  at 
the  door  for  Corona  and  Giovanni. 

"  I  will  join  you  in  a  moment  —  I  know  the  way, "  said 
the  latter,  remaining  behind  with  his  wife. 

When  they  were  alone  he  led  her  towards  one  of  the 
windows,  as  though  to  be  doubly  sure  that  no  one  could 
hear  what  he  was  about  to  say.  Then  he  stood  still  and 
looked  into  her  eyes. 

"Would  you  like  us  to  accept  such  a  favour  from 
him? "  he  asked.  " Tell  me  the  truth." 

"No,"  answered  Corona  without  the  least  hesitation. 
"  But  I  am  sorry  for  San  Giacinto.  I  think  he  is  really 


SANT'  ILARIO.  417 

trying  to  do  right,  and  to  be  generous.  He  was  hurt  by 
your  father's  answer." 

"  If  I  thought  it  would  give  you  pleasure  to  feel  that 
we  could  go  to  Saracinesca,  I  would  try  and  make  my 
father  change  his  mind." 

"  Would  you?  "  She  knew  very  well  what  a  sacrifice  it 
would  be  to  his  pride. 

"Yes,  dear.     I  would  do  it  for  you." 

"  Giovanni  —  how  good  you  are !  " 

"No  —  I  am  not  good.  I  love  you.  That  is  all.  Shall 
I  try?" 

"  Never !  I  am  sorry  for  San  Giacinto  —  but  I  could  no 
more  live  in  the  old  house,  or  in  Saracinesca,  than  you 
could.  Do  I  not  feel  all  that  you  feel,  and  more?" 

"All?" 

"All." 

They  stood  hand  in  hand  looking  out  of  the  window, 
and  there  were  tears  in  the  eyes  of  both.  The  grasp  of 
their  fingers  tightened  slowly  as  though  they  were  drawn 
together  by  an  irresistible  force.  Slowly  they  turned 
their  faces  towards  each  other,  and  presently  their  lips 
met  in  one  of  those  kisses  that  are  never  forgotten.  Then 
Giovanni  left  her  where  she  was.  All  had  been  said; 
both  knew  that  they  desired  nothing  more  in  this  world, 
and  that  henceforth  they  were  all  to  each  other.  It  was 
as  though  a  good  angel  had  set  a  heavenly  seal  upon  the 
reunion  of  their  hearts. 

Corona  did  not  leave  the  room  immediately,  but  re 
mained  a  few  moments  leaning  against  the  heavy  frame 
of  the  window.  Her  queenly  figure  drooped  a  little,  and 
she  pressed  one  hand  to  her  side.  Her  dark  face  was 
bent  down,  and  the  tears  that  had  of  old  come  so  rarely 
made  silver  lines  upon  her  olive  cheeks.  There  was  not 
one  drop  of  bitterness  in  that  overflowing  of  her  soul's 
transcendent  joy,  in  that  happiness  which  was  so  great 
and  perfect  that  it  seemed  almost  unbearable. 

And  she  had  reason  to  be  glad.  In  the  midst  of  a 
calamity  which  would  have  absorbed  the  whole  nature  of 
many  men,  Giovanni  had  not  one  thought  that  was  not 
for  her.  Giovanni,  who  had  once  doubted  her,  who  had 
said  such  things  to  her  as  she  dared  not  remember  —  Gio 
vanni,  suffering  under  a  blow  to  his  pride,  that  was 

2c 


418  SANT'  ILARIO. 

worse  almost  than  total  ruin,  had  but  one  wish,  to  make 
another  sacrifice  for  her.  That  false  past,  of  which  she 
hated  to  think,  was  gone  like  an  evil  dream  before  the 
morning  sun;  that  true  past,  which  was  her  whole  life, 
was  made  present  again.  The  love  that  had  been  so 
bruised  and  crushed  that  she  had  thought  it  dead  had 
sprung  up  again  from  its  deep,  strong  roots,  grander  and 
nobler  than  before.  The  certainty  that  it  was  real  was 
overwhelming,  and  drowned  all  her  senses  in  a  trance  of 
light. 

Faustina  Montevarchi  entered  the  drawing-room  softly, 
then,  seeing  no  one,  she  advanced  till  she  came  all  at  once 
upon  Corona  in  the  embrasure  of  the  window.  The  prin 
cess  started  slightly  when  she  saw  that  she  was  not  alone. 

"Corona!"  exclaimed  the  young  girl.  "Are  you  cry 
ing?  What  is  it?" 

"  Oh,  Faustina!  I  am  so  happy !  "  It  was  a  relief  to  be 
able  to  say  it  to  some  one. 

"  Happy?  "  repeated  Faustina  in  surprise.  "  But  there 
are  tears  in  your  eyes,  on  your  cheeks " 

"You  cannot  understand  —  I  do  not  wonder  —  how 
should  you?  And  besides,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is." 

"I  wish  I  were  you,"  answered  her  friend  sadly.  "I 
wish  I  were  happy !  " 

"What  is  it,  child?"  asked  Corona  kindly.  Then  she 
led  Faustina  to  a  stiff  old  sofa  at  one  end  of  the  vast 
room  and  they  sat  down  together.  "What  is  it?"  she 
repeated,  drawing  the  girl  affectionately  to  her  side. 

"  You  know  what  it  is,  dear.  No  one  can  help  me. 
Oh,  Corona !  we  love  each  other  so  very  much !  " 

"I  know  —  I  know  it  is  very  real.  But  you  must  have 
a  little  patience,  darling.  Love  will  win  in  the  end.  Just 

now,  too "  She  did  not  finish  the  sentence,  but  she 

had  touched  a  sensitive  spot  in  Faustina's  conscience. 

"  That  is  the  worst  of  it, "  was  the  answer.  "  I  am  so 
miserable,  because  I  know  he  never  would  have  allowed 
it,  and  now  —  I  am  ashamed  to  tell  you,  it  is  so  heart 
less!  "  She  hid  her  face  on  her  friend's  shoulder. 

"  You  will  never  be  heartless,  my  dear  Faustina, "  said 
Corona.  "  What  you  think,  is  not  your  fault,  dear.  Love 
is  master  of  the  world  and  of  us  all." 

"But  my  love  is  not  like   yours,   Corona.      Perhaps 


SANT'  TLARTO.  419 

yours  was  once  like  mine.  But  you  are  married  —  you 
are  happy.  You  were  saying  so  just  now." 

"  Yes,  dear.  I  am  very,  very  happy,  because  I  love  very, 
very  dearly.  You  will  be  as  happy  as  I  am  some  day." 

"Ah,  that  may  be — but —  I  am  dreadfully  wicked, 
Corona! " 

"You,  child?  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  to  think 
anything  bad ! " 

"  But  I  do.  I  am  so  much  ashamed  of  it  that  I  can 
hardly  tell  you  —  only  I  tell  you  everything,  because  you 
are  my  friend.  Corona  —  it  is  horrible  —  it  seems  easier, 
more  possible  —  now  that  he  is  gone  —  oh !  I  am  so  glad  I 
have  told  you !  "  Faustina  began  to  sob  passionately,  as 
though  she  were  repenting  of  some  fearful  crime. 

"Is  that  all,  darling?"  asked  Corona,  smiling  at  the 
girl's  innocence,  and  pressing  her  head  tenderly  to  her 
own  breast.  "  Is  that  what  makes  you  so  unhappy?  " 

"Yes  —  is  it  not  —  very,  very  dreadful?"  A  fresh 
shower  of  tears  accompanied  the  question. 

"  Perhaps  I  am  very  bad,  too, "  said  Corona.  "  But  I 
do  not  call  that  wickedness." 

"  Oh  no !     You  are  good.     I  wish  I  were  like  you !  " 

"No,  do  not  wish  that.  But,  I  confess,  it  seems  to 
me  natural  that  you  should  think  as  you  do,  because  it  is 
really  true.  Your  father,  Faustina,  may  have  been  mis 
taken  about  your  future.  If  —  if  he  had  lived,  you  might 
perhaps  have  made  him  change  his  mind.  At  all  events, 
you  can  hope  that  he  now  sees  more  clearly,  that  he  un 
derstands  how  terrible  it  is  for  a  woman  to  be  married 
to  a  man  she  does  not  love  —  when  she  is  sure  that  she 
loves  another." 

"Yes  —  you  told  me.  Do  you  remember?  It  was  the 
other  day,  after  Flavia  had  been  saying  such  dreadful 
things.  But  I  know  it  already.  Every  woman  must 
know  it." 

There  was  a  short  pause,  during  which  Corona  won 
dered  whether  she  were  the  same  person  she  had  been 
ten  days  earlier,  when  she  had  delivered  that  passionate 
warning.  Faustina  sat  quite  still,  looking  up  into  the 
princess's  face.  She  was  comforted  and  reassured  and 
the  tears  had  ceased  to  flow. 

"  There  is  something  else, "  she  said  at  last.     "  I  want 


420  SANT'  ILAKIO. 

to  tell  you  everything,  for  I  can  tell  no  one  else.  I  cannot 
keep  it  to  myself  either.  He  has  written  to  me,  Corona. 
Was  it  very  wrong  to  read  his  letter?"  This  time  she 
smiled  a  little  and  blushed. 

"I  do  not  think  it  was  very  wrong,"  answered  her 
friend  with  a  soft  laugh.  She  was  so  happy  that  she 
would  have  laughed  at  anything. 

"  Shall  I  show  you  his  letter?  "  asked  the  young  girl 
shyly.  At  the  same  time  her  hand  disappeared  into  the 
pocket  of  her  black  gown,  and  immediately  afterwards 
brought  out  a  folded  piece  of  paper  which  looked  as 
though  it  had  been  read  several  times. 

Corona  did  not  think  it  necessary  to  express  her  assent 
in  words.  Faustina  opened  the  note,  which  contained 
the  following  words,  written  in  Gouache's  delicate  French 
handwriting :  — 

"  MADEMOISELLE  —  When  you  have  read  these  lines,  you  will  un 
derstand  my  object  in  writing  them,  for  you  understand  me,  and 
you  know  that  all  I  do  has  but  one  object.  A  few  days  ago  it  was 
still  possible  for  us  to  meet  frequently.  The  terrible  affliction 
which  has  fallen  upon  you,  and  in  which  none  can  feel  deeper  or 
more  sincere  sympathy  than  I,  has  put  it  out  of  your  power  and 
out  of  mine  to  join  hands  and  weep  over  the  present,  to  look  into 
each  other's  eyes  and  read  there  the  golden  legend  of  a  future  hap 
piness.  To  meet  as  we  have  met,  alone  in  the  crowded  church  — 
no  !  we  cannot  do  it.  For  you,  at  such  a  time,  it  would  seem  like 
a  disrespect  to  your  father's  memory.  For  myself,  I  should  deem 
it  dishonourable,  I  should  appear  base  in  my  own  eyes.  Did  I  not 
go  to  him  and  put  to  him  the  great  question  ?  Was  I  not  repulsed 
—  I  do  not  say  with  insult,  but  with  astonishment  —  at  my  pre 
sumption  ?  Shall  I  then  seem  to  take  advantage  of  his  death  —  of 
his  sudden  and  horrible  death  —  to  press  forward  a  suit  which  he  is 
no  longer  able  to  oppose  ?  I  feel  that  it  would  be  wrong.  Though 
I  cannot  express  myself  as  I  would,  I  know  that  you  understand 
me,  for  you  think  as  I  do.  How  could  it  be  otherwise  ?  Are  we 
not  one  indivisible  soul,  we  two  ?  Yes,  you  will  understand  me. 
Yes,  you  will  know  that  it  is  right.  I  go  therefore,  I  leave  Home 
immediately.  I  cannot  inhabit  the  same  city  and  not  see  you.  But 
I  cannot  quit  the  Zouaves  in  this  time  of  danger.  I  am  therefore 
going  to  Viterbo,  whither  I  am  sent  through  the  friendly  assistance  of 
one  of  our  officers.  There  I  shall  stay  until  time  has  soothed  your 
grief  and  restored  your  mother  to  health.  To  her  we  will  turn  when 
the  moment  has  arrived.  She  will  not  be  insensible  to  our  tears  and 
entreaties.  Until  then  good-bye  —  ah  !  the  word  is  less  terrible  than 
H  looks,  for  our  souls  will  be  always  together.  I  leave  you  but  for 
a  short  space  —  no  !  I  leave  your  sweet  eyes,  your  angel's  face,  your 
dear  hands  that  I  adore,  but  yourself  I  do  not  leave.'  I  bear  you 
with  me  in  a  heart  that  loves  you  —  God  knows  how  tenderly." 


SANT'  ILARIO.  421 

Corona  read  the  letter  carefully  to  the  end.  To  her 
older  appreciation  of  the  world,  such  a  letter  appeared  at 
first  to  be  the  forerunner  of  a  definite  break,  but  a  little 
reflection  made  her  change  her  mind.  What  he  said  was 
clearly  true,  and  corresponded  closely  with  Faustina's 
own  view  of  the  case.  The  most  serious  obstacle  to  the 
union  of  the  lovers  had  been  removed  by  Prince  Monte  - 
varchi's  death,  and  it  was  inconceivable  that  Gouache 
should  have  ceased  to  care  for  Faustina  at  the  very  mo 
ment  when  a  chance  of  his  marrying  her  had  presented 
itself.  Besides,  Corona  knew  Gouache  well,  and  was  not 
mistaken  in  her  estimate  of  his  character.  He  was 
honourable  to  Quixotism,  and  perfectly  capable  of  refus 
ing  to  take  what  looked  like  an  unfair  advantage.  Con 
sidering  Faustina's  strange  nature,  her  amazing  readiness 
to  yield  to  first  impulses,  and  her  touching  innocence  of 
evil,  it  would  have  been  an  easy  matter  for  the  man  she 
loved  to  draw  her  into  a  runaway  match.  She  would 
have  followed  him  as  readily  to  the  ends  of  the  earth 
as  she  had  followed  him  to  the  Serristori  barracks.  Gou 
ache  was  not  a  boy,  and  probably  understood  her  pecul 
iarities  as  well  as  any  one.  In  going  away  for  the 
present  he  was  undoubtedly  acting  with  the  greatest 
delicacy,  for  his  departure  showed  at  once  all  the  respect 
he  felt  for  Faustina,  and  all  that  devotion  to  an  ideal 
honour  which  was  the  foundation  of  his  being.  Though 
his  epistle  was  not  a  model  of  literary  style  it  contained 
certain  phrases  that  came  from  the  heart.  Corona  under 
stood  why  Faustina  was  pleased  with  it,  and  why  instead 
of  shedding  useless  tears  over  his  absence,  she  had  shown 
such  willingness  to  let  her  friend  read  Gouache's  own 
explanation  of  his  departure.  She  folded  the  sheet  of 
paper  again  and  gave  it  back  to  the  young  girl. 

"I  am  glad  he  wrote  that  letter,"  she  said  after  a  mo 
ment's  pause.  "  I  always  believed  in  him,  and  now  — 
well,  I  think,  he  is  almost  worthy  of  you,  Faustina." 

Faustina  threw  her  arms  around  Corona's  neck,  and 
kissed  her  again  and  again. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  know  how  good  he  is !  "  she  cried. 
"  I  could  not  be  happy  unless  you  liked  him,  and  you  do." 

All  through  the  morning  the  two  friends  sat  together 
in  the  great  drawing-room  talking,  as  such  women  can 


422  SANT'  ILARIO. 

talk  to  each  other,  with  infinite  grace  about  matters  not 
worth  recording,  or  if  they  spoke  of  things  of  greater 
importance,  repeating  the  substance  of  what  they  had 
said  before,  finding  at  each  repetition  some  new  com 
ment  to  make,  some  new  point  upon  which  to  agree,  after 
the  manner  of  people  who  are  very  fond  of  each  other. 
The  hours  slipped  by,  and  they  were  unconscious  of  the 
lapse  of  time.  The  great  clocks  of  the  neighbouring 
church  towers  tolled  eleven,  twelve,  and  one  o'clock,  and 
yet  they  had  more  to  say,  and  did  not  even  notice  the 
loud  ringing  of  the  hundred  bells.  The  day  was  clear, 
and  the  bright  sunlight  streamed  in  through  the  high 
windows,  telling  the  hour  with  a  more  fateful  precision 
than  the  clocks  outside.  All  was  peace  and  happiness 
and  sweet  intercourse,  as  the  two  women  sat  there  undis 
turbed  through  the  long  morning.  They  talked,  and 
laughed,  and  held  their  hands  clasped  together,  uncon 
scious  of  the  rest  of  the  world.  No  sound  penetrated 
from  the  rest  of  the  house  to  the  quiet,  sunlit  hall,  which 
to  Faustina's  mind  had  never  looked  so  cheerful  before 
since  she  could  remember  it.  And  yet  within  the  walls 
of  the  huge  old  palace  strange  things  were  passing,  things 
which  it  was  well  that  neither  of  them  should  see. 

Before  describing  the  events  which  close  this  part  of 
my  story,  it  is  as  well  to  say  that  Faustina  has  made  her 
last  appearance  for  the  present.  From  the  point  of  view 
which  would  have  been  taken  by  most  of  her  acquaint 
ances,  her  marriage  with  Gouache  was  a  highly  improb 
able  event.  If  any  one  desires  an  apology  for  being  left 
in  uncertainty  as  to  her  fate,  I  can  only  answer  that  I  am 
writing  the  history  of  the  Saracinesca  and  not  of  any  one 
else.  There  are  certain  stages  in  that  history  which  are 
natural  halting-places  for  the  historian  himself,  and  for 
his  readers  if  he  have  any;  and  it  is  impossible  to  make 
the  lives  of  a  number  of  people  coincide  so  far  as  to  wind 
them  up  together,  and  yet  be  sure  that  they  will  run  down 
at  the  same  moment  like  the  clocks  of  his  Majesty 
Charles  the  Fifth.  If  it  were,  the  world  would  be  a  very 
different  place. 


SANT'  ILARIO.  423 


CHAPTER   XXX. 

The  scene  in  the  study,  while  the  notary  read  through 
the  voluminous  documents,  is  worth  describing.  At  one 
end  of  the  large  green  table  sat  San  Giacinto  alone,  his 
form,  even  as  he  sat,  towering  above  the  rest.  The 
mourning  he  wore  harmonised  with  his  own  dark  and 
massive  head.  His  expression  was  calm  and  thoughtful, 
betraying  neither  satisfaction  nor  triumph.  From  time 
to  time  his  deep-set  eyes  turned  towards  Saracinesca  with 
a  look  of  inquiry,  as  though  to  assure  himself  that  the 
prince  agreed  to  the  various  points  and  was  aware  that 
he  must  now  speak  for  the  last  time,  if  he  spoke  at  all. 
At  the  other  end  of  the  board  the  two  Saracinesca  were 
seated  side  by  side.  The  strong  resemblance  that  existed 
between  them  was  made  very  apparent  by  their  position, 
but  although,  allowing  for  the  difference  of  their  ages, 
their  features  corresponded  almost  line  for  line,  their 
expressions  were  totally  different.  The  old  man's  gray 
hair  and  pointed  beard  seemed  to  bristle  with  suppressed 
excitement.  His  heavy  brows  were  bent  together,  as 
though  he  were  making  a  great  effort  to  control  his  tem 
per,  and  now  and  then  there  was  an  angry  gleam  in  his 
eyes.  He  sat  square  and  erect  in  his  seat,  as  though  he 
were  facing  an  enemy,  but  he  kept  his  hands  below  the 
table,  for  he  did  not  choose  that  San  Giacinto  should  see 
the  nervous  working  of  his  fingers.  Giovanni,  on  the  other 
hand,  looked  upon  the  proceedings  with  an  indifference 
that  was  perfectly  apparent.  He  occasionally  looked  at 
his  watch,  suppressed  a  yawn,  and  examined  his  nails 
with  great  interest.  It  was  clear  that  he  was  not  in  the 
least  moved  by  what  was  going  on.  It  was  no  light  mat 
ter  for  the  old  nobleman  to  listen  to  the  documents  that 
deprived  him  one  by  one  of  his  titles,  his  estates,  and  his 
other  wealth,  in  favour  of  a  man  who  was  still  young, 
and  whom,  in  spite  of  the  relationship,  he  could  not  help 
regarding  as  an  inferior.  He  had  always  considered 
himself  as  the  representative  of  an  older  generation,  who, 
by  right  of  position,  was  entitled  to  transmit  to  his  son 
the  whole  mass  of  those  proud  traditions  in  which  he  had 


424  SANT'  ILARTO. 

grown  up  as  in  his  natural  element.  Giovanni,  on  the 
contrary,  possessed  a  goodly  share  of  that  indifference 
that  characterises  the  younger  men  of  the  nineteenth 
century.  He  was  perfectly  satisfied  with  his  present 
situation,  and  had  been  so  long  accustomed  to  depend 
upon  his  personality  and  his  private  fortune,  for  all  that 
he  enjoyed  or  required  in  life,  that  he  did  not  desire  the 
responsibilities  that  weigh  heavily  upon  the  head  of  a 
great  family.  Moreover,  recent  events  had  turned  the 
current  of  his  thoughts  into  a  different  direction.  He 
was  in  his  way  as  happy  as  Corona,  and  he  knew  that 
real  happiness  proceeds  from  something  more  than  a 
score  of  titles  and  a  few  millions  of  money,  more  or  less. 
He  regarded  the  long  morning's  work  as  an  intolerable 
nuisance,  which  prevented  him  from  spending  his  time 
with  his  wife. 

In  the  middle  of  the  table  sat  the  two  notaries,  flanked 
by  four  clerks,  all  of  them  pale  men  in  black,  clean  shaved, 
of  various  ages,  but  bearing  on  their  faces  the  almost 
unmistakable  stamp  of  their  profession.  The  one  who 
was  reading  the  deeds  wore  spectacles.  From  time  to 
time  he  pushed  them  back  upon  his  bald  forehead  and 
glanced  first  at  San  Giacinto  and  then  at  Prince  Saracin- 
esca,  after  which  he  carefully  resettled  the  glasses  upon 
his  long  nose  and  proceeded  with  his  task  until  he  had 
reached  the  end  of  another  set  of  clauses,  when  he  re 
peated  the  former  operation  with  mechanical  regularity, 
never  failing  to  give  San  Giacinto  the  precedence  of  the 
first  look. 

For  a  long  time  this  went  on,  with  a  monotony  which 
almost  drove  Giovanni  from  the  room.  Indeed  nothing 
but  absolute  necessity  could  have  kept  him  in  his  place. 
At  last  the  final  deed  was  reached.  It  was  an  act  of  res 
titution  drawn  up  in  a  simple  form  so  as  to  include,  by 
a  few  words,  all  the  preceding  documents.  It  set  forth 
that  Leone  Saracinesca  being  "free  in  body  and  mind," 
the  son  of  Giovanni  Saracinesca  deceased,  "  whom  may 
the  Lord  preserve  in  a  state  of  glory,"  restored,  gave 
back,  yielded,  and  abandoned  all  those  goods,  titles,  and 
benefices  which  he  had  inherited  directly  from  Leone 
Saracinesca,  the  eleventh  of  that  name,  deceased,  "  whom 
may  the  Lord  preserve  in  a  state  of  glory, "  to  Giovanni 


SANT'  ILARIO.  425 

Saracinesca,  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto,  who  was  "  free  in 
body  and  mind, "  son  of  Orsino  Saracinesca,  ninth  of  that 
name,  deceased,  "whom  may  the  Lord,  etc."  Not  one 
of  the  quaint  stock  phrases  was  omitted.  The  notary 
paused,  looked  round,  adjusted  his  spectacles  and  con 
tinued.  The  deed  further  set  forth  that  Giovanni 
Saracinesca,  Marchese  di  San  Giacinto  aforesaid,  ac 
knowledged  the  receipt  of  the  aforesaid  goods,  titles,  and 
benefices,  and  stated  that  he  received  all  as  the  complete 
inheritance,  relinquishing  all  further  claims  against  the 
aforesaid  Leone  and  his  heirs  for  ever.  Once  more  the 
reader  paused,  and  then  read  the  last  words  in  a  clear 
voice  — 

"  Both  the  noble  parties  promising,  finally,  in  regard 
to  the  present  cession,  to  take  account  of  it,  to  hold  it  as 
acceptable,  valid,  and  perpetual,  and,  for  the  same, 
never  to  allow  it  to  be  spoken  of  otherwise." 

A  few  words  followed,  setting  forth  the  name  of  the 
notary  and  the  statement  that  the  act  was  executed  in  his 
presence,  with  the  date.  When  he  had  finished  reading 
all,  he  rose  and  turned  the  document  upon  the  table  so 
that  the  two  parties  could  stand  opposite  to  him  and 
sign  it.  Without  a  word  he  made  a  slight  inclination 
and  offered  the  pen  to  Saracinesca.  The  old  gentleman 
pushed  back  his  chair  and  marched  forward  with  erect 
head  and  a  firm  step  to  sign  away  what  had  been  his 
birthright.  From  first  to  last  he  had  acknowledged  the 
justice  of  his  cousin's  claims,  and  he  was  not  the  man  to 
waver  at  the  supreme  moment.  His  hair  bristled  more 
stiffly  than  ever,  and  his  dark  eyes  shot  fire,  but  he  took 
the  pen  and  wrote  his  great  strong  signature  as  clearly 
as  he  had  written  it  at  the  foot  of  his  marriage  contract 
five  and  thirty  years  earlier.  Giovanni  looked  at  him 
with  admiration. 

Then  San  Giacinto,  who  had  risen  out  of  respect  to 
the  old  man,  came  forward  and  took  the  pen  in  his  turn. 
He  wrote  out  his  name  in  straight,  firm  characters  as 
usual,  but  at  the  end  the  ink  made  a  broad  black  mark 
that  ended  abruptly,  as  though  the  writer  had  put  the 
last  stroke  to  a  great  undertaking. 

"  There  should  be  two  witnesses, "  said  the  notary  in 
the  awkward  silence  that  followed,  "  Don  Giovanni  can 


426  SANT'  ILARIO. 

be  one,"  he  added,  giving  the  latter  the  only  name  that 
was  now  his,  with  a  lawyer's  scrupulous  exactness. 

"  One  of  your  clerks  can  be  the.  other, "  suggested  Sara- 
cinesca,  who  was  anxious  to  get  away  as  soon  as  possible. 

"It  is  not  usual,"  replied  the  notary.  "Is  there  no 
one  in  the  palace?  One  of  the  young  princes  would  do 
admirably." 

"They  are  all  away,"  said  San  Giacinto.  "Let  me  see 
—  there  is  the  librarian.  Will  he  answer  the  purpose? 
He  must  be  in  the  library  at  this  hour.  A  respectable 
man  —  he  has  been  thirty  years  in  the  house.  For  that 
matter,  the  steward  is  probably  in  his  office,  too." 

"The  librarian  is  the  best  person,"  answered  the 
notary. 

"I  will  bring  him  at  once  —  I  know  the  way."  San 
Giacinto  left  the  study  by  the  door  that  opened  upon  the 
passage.  The  others  could  hear  his  heavy  steps  as  he 
went  rapidly  up  the  paved  corridor.  Old  Saracinesca 
walked  up  and  down  the  room  unable  to  conceal  his  im 
patience.  Giovanni  resumed  his  seat  and  waited  quietly, 
indifferent  to  the  last. 

Arnoldo  Meschini  was  in  the  library,  as  San  Giacinto 
had  anticipated.  He  was  seated  at  his  usual  place  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  hall,  surrounded  by  books  and  writing 
materials  which  he  handled  nervously  without  making 
any  serious  attempt  to  use  them.  He  had  lost  all  power 
of  concentrating  his  thoughts  or  of  making  any  effort  to 
work.  Fortunately  for  him  no  one  had  paid  any  atten 
tion  to  him  during  the  past  ten  days.  His  appearance 
was  dishevelled  and  slovenly,  and  he  was  more  bent  than 
he  had  formerly  been.  His  eyes  were  bleared  and  glassy 
as  he  stared  at  the  table  before  him,  assuming  a  wild  and 
startled  expression  when,  looking  up,  he  fancied  he  saw 
some  horrible  object  gliding  quickly  across  the  sunny 
floor,  or  creeping  up  to  him  over  the  polished  table. 
All  his  former  air  of  humility  and  shabby  respectability 
was  gone.  His  disordered  dress,  his  straggling  grayish 
hair  that  hung  from  beneath  the  dirty  black  skullcap 
around  his  mis-shapen  ears,  his  face,  yellow  in  parts  and 
irregularly  flushed  in  others,  as  though  it  were  begin 
ning  to  be  scorched  from  within,  his  unwashed  hands, 
every  detail  of  his  appearance,  in  short,  proclaimed  his 


SANT'  ILAHIO.  427 

total  degradation.  But  hitherto  no  one  had  noticed  him, 
for  he  had  lived  between  his  attic,  the  deserted  library 
and  the  apothecary's  shop  on  the  island  of  Saint  Barthol 
omew.  His  mind  had  almost  ceased  to  act  when  he  was 
awake,  except  in  response  to  the  fear  which  the  smallest 
circumstances  now  caused  him.  If  he  had  dreams  by 
night,  he  saw  visions  also  in  the  day,  and  his  visions 
generally  took  the  shape  of  San  Giacinto.  He  had  not 
really  seen  him  since  he  had  met  him  wrhen  the  prince 
lay  in  state,  but  the  fear  of  him  was,  if  anything,  greater 
than  if  he  had  met  him  daily.  The  idea  that  the  giant 
was  lying  in  wait  for  him  had  become  fixed,  and  yet  he 
was  powerless  to  fly.  His  energy  was  all  gone  between 
his  potations  and  the  constant  terror  that  paralysed  him. 

On  that  morning  he  had  been  as  usual  to  the  Ponte 
Quattro  Capi  and  had  returned  with  the  means  of  sleep 
in  his  pocket.  He  had  no  instinct  left  but  to  deaden  his 
sensations  with  drink  during  the  hours  of  light,  while 
waiting  for  the  time  when  he  could  lie  down  and  yield  to 
the  more  potent  influence  of  the  opium.  He  had  there 
fore  come  back  as  usual,  and  by  force  of  habit  had  taken 
his  place  in  the  library,  the  fear  of  seeming  to  neglect 
his  supposed  duties  forbidding  him  to  spend  all  his  time 
in  his  room.  As  usual,  too,  he  had  locked  the  door  of 
the  passage  to  separate  himself  from  his  dread  of  a 
supernatural  visitation.  He  sat  doubled  together  in  his 
chair,  his  long  arms  lying  out  before  him  upon  the  books 
and  papers. 

All  at  once  he  started  in  his  seat.  One,  two,  one  two 
—  yes,  there  were  footsteps  in  the  corridor  —  they  were 
coming  nearer  and  nearer  —  heavy,  like  those  of  the  dead 
prince  —  but  quicker,  like  those  of  San  Giacinto  —  closer, 
closer  yet.  A  hand  turned  the  latch  once,  twice,  then 
shook  the  lock  roughly.  Meschini  was  helpless.  He 
could  neither  get  upon  his  feet  and  escape  by  the  other 
exit,  nor  find  the  way  to  the  pocket  that  held  his  weapon. 
Again  the  latch  was  turned  and  shaken,  and  then  the 
deep  voice  he  dreaded  was  heard  calling  to  him. 

"  Signer  Meschini! " 

He  shrieked  aloud  with  fear,  but  he  was  paralysed  in 
every  limb.  A  moment  later  a  terrible  crash  drowned 
his  cries.  San  Giacinto,  on  hearing  his  agonised  scream, 


428  SANT'  ILARIO. 

had  feared  some  accident.  He  drew  back  a  step  and 
then,  with  a  spring,  threw  his  colossal  strength  against 
the  line  where  the  leaves  of  the  door  joined.  The  lock 
broke  in  its  sockets,  the  panels  cracked  under  the  tre 
mendous  pressure,  and  the  door  flew  wide  open.  In  a 
moment  San  Giacinto  was  standing  over  the  librarian, 
trying  to  drag  him  back  from  the  table  and  out  of  his 
seat.  He  thought  the  man  was  in  a  fit.  In  reality  he 
was  insane  with  terror. 

"  An  easy  death,  for  the  love  of  heaven !  "  moaned  the 
wretch,  twisting  himself  under  the  iron  hands  that  held 
him  by  the  shoulders.  "  For  God's  sake !  I  will  tell  you 
all  —  do  not  torture  me  —  oh !  oh !  —  only  let  it  be  easy  — 
and  quick  —  yes,  I  tell  you  —  I  killed  the  prince  —  oh, 
mercy,  mercy,  for  Christ's  sake!  " 

San  Giacinto's  grip  tightened,  and  his  face  grew  livid. 
He  lifted  Meschini  bodily  from  the  chair  and  set  him 
against  the  table,  holding  him  up  at  arm's  length,  his 
deep  eyes  blazing  with  a  rage  that  would  soon  be  uncon 
trollable.  Meschini's  naturally  strong  constitution  did 
not  afford  him  the  relief  of  fainting. 

"  You  killed  him  —  why?  "  asked  San  Giacinto  through 
his  teeth,  scarcely  able  to  speak. 

"  For  you,  for  you  —  oh,  have  mercy  —  do  not " 

"  Silence ! "  cried  the  giant  in  a  voice  that  shook  the 
vault  of  the  hall.  "  Answer  me  or  I  will  tear  your  head 
from  your  body  with  my  hands !  Why  do  you  say  you 
killed  him  for  me?" 

Meschini  trembled  all  over,  and  then  his  contorted 
face  grew  almost  calm.  He  had  reached  that  stage  which 
may  be  called  the  somnambulism  of  fear.  The  perspira 
tion  covered  his  skin  in  an  instant,  and  his  voice  sank  to 
a  distinct  whisper. 

"  He  made  me  forge  the  deeds,  and  would  not  pay  me 
for  them.  Then  I  killed  him." 

"What  deeds?" 

"The  deeds  that  have  made  you  Prince  Saracinesca. 
If  you  do  not  believe  me,  go  to  my  room,  the  originals 
are  in  the  cupboard.  The  key  is  here,  in  my  right-hand 
pocket." 

He  could  not  move  to  get  it,  for  San  Giacinto  held  him 
fast,  and  watched  every  attempt  he  made  at  a  movement, 


SANT'  ILAEIO.  429 

His  own  face  was  deathly  pale,  and  his  white  lips  were 
compressed  together. 

"You  forged  them  altogether,  and  the  originals  are 
untouched?  "  he  asked,  his  grasp  tightening  unconsciously 
till  Meschini  yelled  with  pain. 

"Yes!"  he  cried.  "Oh,  do  not  hurt  me  —  an  easy 
death " 

"Come  with  me,"  said  San  Giacinto,  leaving  his  arms 
and  taking  him  by  the  collar.  Then  he  dragged  and 
pushed  him  towards  the  splintered  door  of  the  passage. 
At  the  threshold,  Meschini  writhed  and  tried  to  draw 
back,  but  he  could  no  more  have  escaped  from  those 
hands  that  held  him  than  a  lamb  can  loosen  the  talons  of 
an  eagle  when  they  are  buried  deep  in  the  flesh. 

"  Go  on !  "  urged  the  strong  man,  in  fierce  tones.  "  You 
came  by  this  passage  to  kill  him  —  you  know  the  way." 

With  a  sudden  movement  of  his  right  hand  he  launched 
the  howling  wretch  forward  into  the  corridor.  All 
through  the  narrow  way  Meschini's  cries  for  mercy 
resounded,  loud  and  piercing,  but  no  one  heard  him. 
The  walls  were  thick  and  the  distance  from  the  inhabited 
rooms  was  great.  But  at  last  the  shrieks  reached  the 
study. 

Saracinesca  stood  still  in  his  walk.  Giovanni  sprang 
to  his  feet.  The  notaries  sat  in  their  places  and  trem 
bled.  The  noise  came  nearer  and  then  the  door  flew 
open.  San  Giacinto  dragged  the  shapeless  mass  of 
humanity  in  and  flung  it  half  way  across  the  room,  so 
that  it  sank  in  a  heap  at  the  old  prince's  feet. 

"There  is  the  witness  to  the  deeds,"  he  cried  savagely. 
"He  forged  them,  and  he  shall  witness  them  in  hell. 
He  killed  his  master  in  this  very  room,  and  here  he  shall 
tell  the  truth  before  he  dies.  Confess,  you  dog!  And 
be  quick  about  it,  or  I  will  help  you." 

He  stirred  the  grovelling  creature  with  his  foot.  Mes 
chini  only  rolled  from  side  to  side  and  hid  his  face  against 
the  floor.  Then  the  gigantic  hands  seized  him  again  and 
set  him  on  his  feet,  and  held  him  with  his  face  to  the 
eight  men  who  had  all  risen  and  were  standing  together 
in  wondering  silence. 

"Speak!"  shouted  San  Giacinto  in  Meschini's  ear. 
"You  are  not  dead  yet  —  you  have  much  to  live  through, 
I  hope." 


430  SANT'  ILARIO. 

Again  that  trembling  passed  over  the  unfortunate 
man's  limbs,  and  he  grew  quiet  and  submissive.  It  was 
all  as  he  had  seen  it  in  his  wild  dreams  and  visions,  the 
secret  chamber  whence  no  sound  could  reach  the  outer 
world,  the  stern  judges  all  in  black,  the  cruel  strength 
of  San  Giacinto  ready  to  torture  him.  The  shadow  of 
death  rose  in  his  eyes. 

"Let  me  sit  down,"  he  said  in  a  broken  voice. 

San  Giacinto  led  him  to  a  chair  in  the  midst  of  them 
all.  Then  he  stood  before  one  of  the  doors,  and  motioned 
to  his  cousin  to  guard  the  other.  But  Arnoldo  Meschini 
had  no  hope  of  escape.  His  hour  was  at  hand,  and  he 
knew  it. 

"  You  forged  the  deeds  which  were  presented  as  orig 
inals  in  the  court.  Confess  it  to  those  gentlemen."  It 
was  San  Giacinto  who  spoke. 

"The  prince  made  me  do  it,"  answered  Meschini  in  low 
tones.  "  He  promised  me  twenty  thousand  scudi  for  the 
work." 

"  To  be  paid  —  when  ?    Tell  all. " 

"To  be  paid  in  cash  the  day  the  verdict  was  given." 

"You  came  to  get  your  money  here?" 

"I  came  here.  He  denied  having  promised  anything 
definite.  I  grew  angry.  I  killed  him."  A  violent 
shudder  shook  his  frame  from  head  to  foot. 

"You  strangled  him  with  a  pocket  handkerchief?" 

"It  was  Donna  Faustina's?" 

"  The  prince  threw  it  on  the  ground  after  he  had  struck 
her.  I  saw  the  quarrel.  I  was  waiting  for  my  money. 
I  watched  them  through  the  door." 

"  You  know  that  you  are  to  die.  Where  are  the  deeds 
you  stole  when  you  forged  the  others?" 

"  I  told  you  —  in  the  cupboard  in  my  room.  Here  is 
the  key.  Only  —  for  God's  sake " 

He  was  beginning  to  break  down  again.  Perhaps,  by 
the  habit  of  the  past  days  he  felt  the  need  for  drink  even 
in  that  supreme  moment,  for  his  hand  sought  his  pocket 
as  he  sat.  Instead  of  the  bottle  he  felt  the  cold  steel 
barrel  of  the  revolver,  which  he  had  forgotten.  San 
Giacinto  looked  towards  the  notary. 

"Is  this  a  full  confession,  sufficient  to  commit  this 
man  to  trial?"  he  asked.  But  before  the  notary  could 


SANT'  ILARIO.  431 

answer,  Meschini' s  voice  sounded  through  the  room,  not 
weak  and  broken,  but  loud  and  clear. 

"  It  is !  It  is !  "  he  cried  in  sudden  and  wild  excite 
ment.  "I  have  told  all.  The  deeds  will  speak  for 
themselves.  Ah!  you  would  have  done  better  to  leave 
me  amongst  my  books ! "  He  turned  to  San  Giacinto. 
"You  will  never  be  Prince  Saracinesca.  But  I  shall 
escape  you.  You  shall  not  give  me  a  slow  death  —  you 
shall  not,  I  say " 

San  Giacinto  made  a  step  towards  him.  The  proxim 
ity  of  the  man  who  had  inspired  him  with  such  abject 
terror  put  an  end  to  his  hesitation. 

"You  shall  not!"  he  almost  screamed.  "But  my 
blood  is  on  your  head  —  Ah !  " 

Three  deafening  reports  shook  the  air  in  rapid  succes 
sion,  and  all  that  was  left  of  Arnoldo  Meschini  lay  in  a 
shapeless  heap  upon  the  floor.  While  a  man  might  have 
counted  a  score  there  was  silence  in  the  room.  Then 
San  Giacinto  came  forward  and  bent  over  the  body,  while 
the  notaries  and  their  clerks  cowered  in  a  corner.  Sara 
cinesca  and  Giovanni  stood  together,  grave  and  silent, 
as  brave  men  are  when  they  have  seen  a  horrible  sight 
and  can  do  nothing.  Meschini  was  quite  dead.  When 
San  Giacinto  had  assured  himself  of  the  fact,  he  looked 
up.  All  the  fierce  rage  had  vanished  from  his  face. 

"  He  is  dead,"  he  said  quietly.  "  You  all  saw  it.  You 
will  have  to  give  your  evidence  in  half  an  hour  when 
the  police  come.  Be  good  enough  to  open  the  door." 

He  took  up  the  body  in  his  arms  carefully,  but  with 
an  ease  that  amazed  those  who  watched  him.  Giovanni 
held  the  door  open,  and  San  Giacinto  deposited  his  bur 
den  gently  upon  the  pavement  of  the  corridor.  Then  he 
turned  back  and  re-entered  the  room.  The  door  of  the 
study  closed  for  ever  on  Arnoldo  Meschini. 

In  the  dead  silence  that  followed,  San  Giacinto  ap 
proached  the  table  upon  which  the  deed  lay,  still  waiting 
to  be  witnessed.  He  took  it  in  his  hand  and  turned  to 
Saracinesca.  There  was  no  need  for  him  to  exculpate 
himself  from  any  charge  of  complicity  in  the  abominable 
fraud  which  Montevarchi  had  prepared  before  he  died. 
Not  one  of  the  men  present  even  thought  of  suspecting 
him.  Even  if  they  had,  it  was  clear  that  he  would  not 


432  SANT'  ILARIO. 

have  brought  Meschini  to  confess  before  them  a  robbery 
in  which  he  had  taken  part.  But  there  was  that  in  his 
brave  eyes  that  told  his  innocence  better  than  any  evi 
dence  or  argument  could  have  proclaimed  it.  He  held 
out  the  document  to  Saracinesca. 

"Would  you  like  to  keep  it  as  a  memento?  "  he  asked. 
"Or  shall  I  destroy  it  before  you?" 

His  voice  never  quavered,  his  face  was  not  discom 
posed.  Giovanni,  the  noble-hearted  gentleman,  wondered 
whether  he  himself  could  have  borne  such  a  blow  so 
bravely  as  this  innkeeper  cousin  of  his.  Hopes,  such  as 
few  men  can  even  aspire  to  entertain,  had  been  suddenly 
extinguished.  A  future  of  power  and  wealth  and  honour, 
the  highest  almost  that  his  country  could  give  any  man, 
had  been  in  a  moment  dashed  to  pieces  before  his  eyes. 
Dreams,  in  which  the  most  indifferent  would  see  the 
prospect  of  enormous  satisfaction,  had  vanished  into 
nothing  during  the  last  ten  minutes,  almost  at  the  instant 
when  they  were  to  be  realised.  And  yet  the  man  who 
had  hoped  such  hopes,  who  had  looked  forward  to  such 
a  future,  whose  mind  must  have  revelled  many  a  time 
in  the  visions  that  were  already  becoming  realities  — 
that  man  stood  before  them  all,  outwardly  unmoved,  and 
proposing  to  his  cousin  that  he  should  keep  as  a  remem 
brance  the  words  that  told  of  his  own  terrible  disap 
pointment.  He  was  indeed  the  calmest  of  those  present. 

"  Shall  I  tear  it  to  pieces?  "  he  asked  again,  holding  the 
document  between  his  fingers.  Then  the  old  prince  spoke. 

"Do  what  you  will  with  it,"  he  answered.  "But  give 
me  your  hand.  You  are  a  braver  man  than  I." 

The  two  men  looked  into  each  other's  eyes  as  their 
hands  met. 

"  It  shall  not  be  the  last  deed  between  us, "  said  Sara 
cinesca.  "There  shall  be  another.  Whatever  may  be 
the  truth  about  that  villain's  work  you  shall  have  your 
share " 

"  A  few  hours  ago,  you  would  not  take  yours,"  answered 
San  Giacinto  quietly.  "  Must  I  repeat  your  own  words?  " 

"Well,  well  —  we  will  talk  of  that.  This  has  been  a 
terrible  morning's  work,  and  we  must  do  other  things 
before  we  go  to  business  again.  That  poor  man's  body 
is  outside  the  door.  We  had  better  attend  to  that  mat- 


SANT*   ILAR1O.  438 

ter  first,  and  send  for  the  police.  Giovanni,  my  boy, 
will  you  tell  Corona?  I  believe  she  is  still  in  the 
house." 

Giovanni  needed  no  urging  to  go  upon  his  errand. 
He  entered  the  drawing-room  where  Corona  was  still  sit 
ting  beside  Faustina  upon  the  sofa.  His  face  must  have 
been  pale,  for  Corona  looked  at  him  with  a  startled 
expression. 

"Is  anything  the  matter?"  she  asked. 

"  Something  very  unpleasant  has  occurred, "  he  an 
swered,  looking  at  Faustina.  "  Meschini,  the  librarian, 
has  just  died  very  suddenly  in  the  study  where  we  were." 

"  Meschini?  "  cried  Faustina  in  surprise  and  with  some 
anxiety. 

"  Yes.  Are  you  nervous,  Donna  Faustina?  May  I  tell 
you  something  very  startling?  "  It  was  a  man's  question. 

"Yes  —  what  is  it?"  she  asked  quickly. 

"  Meschini  confessed  before  us  all  that  it  was  he  who 
was  the  cause  —  in  fact  that  he  had  murdered  your 
father.  Before  any  one  could  stop  him,  he  had  shot 
himself.  It  is  very  dreadful." 

With  a  low  cry  that  was  more  expressive  of  amaze 
ment  than  of  horror,  Faustina  sank  into  a  chair.  In  his 
anxiety  to  tell  his  wife  the  whole  truth  Giovanni  forgot 
her  at  once.  As  soon  as  he  began  to  speak,  however, 
Corona  led  him  away  to  the  window  where  they  had 
stood  together  a  few  hours  earlier. 

"  Corona  —  what  I  told  her  is  not  all.  There  is  some 
thing  else.  Meschini  had  forged  the  papers  which  gave 
the  property  to  San  Giacinto.  Montevarchi  had  prom 
ised  him  twenty  thousand  scudi  for  the  job.  It  was 
because  he  would  not  pay  the  money  that  Meschini  killed 
him.  Do  you  understand?  " 

"You  will  have  everything  after  all?" 

"  Everything  —  but  we  must  give  San  Giacinto  a  share. 
He  has  behaved  like  a  hero.  He  found  it  all  out  and 
made  Meschini  confess.  When  he  knew  the  truth  he  did 
not  move  a  muscle  of  his  face,  but  offered  my  father  the 
deed  he  had  just  signed  as  a  memento  of  the  occasion." 

"  Then  he  will  not  take  anything,  any  more  than  you 
would,  or  your  father.  Is  it  quite  sure,  Giovanni?  Is 
there  no  possible  mistake?" 

2D 


434  SANT'  ILARIO. 

"No.  It  is  absolutely  certain.  The  original  docu 
ments  are  in  this  house." 

"I  am  glad  then,  for  you,  dear,"  answered  Corona. 
"  It  would  have  been  very  hard  for  you  to  bear " 

"After  this  morning?  After  the  other  day  in  Holy 
Office?"  asked  Giovanni,  looking  deep  into  her  splendid 
eyes.  "  Can  anything  be  hard  to  bear  if  you  love  me, 
darling?" 

"  Oh  my  beloved !  I  wanted  to  hear  you  say  it !  " 
Her  head  sank  upon  his  shoulder,  as  though  she  had 
found  that  perfect  rest  for  which  she  had  once  so  longed. 

Here  ends  the  second  act  in  the  history  of  the  Sara- 
cinesca.  To  trace  their  story  further  would  be  to  enter 
upon  an  entirely  different  series  of  events,  less  unusual 
perhaps  in  themselves,  but  possibly  worthy  of  descrip 
tion  as  embracing  that  period  during  which  Home  and  the 
Romans  began  to  be  transformed  and  modernised.  In 
the  occurrences  that  followed,  both  political  and  social, 
the  Saracinesca  bore  a  part,  in  that  blaze  of  gaiety  which 
for  many  reasons  developed  during  the  winter  of  the 
(Ecumenical  Council,  in  the  fall  of  the  temporal  power, 
in  the  social  confusion  that  succeeded  that  long-expected 
catastrophe,  and  which  led  by  rapid  degrees  to  the  pres 
ent  state  of  things.  If  there  are  any  left  who  still  feel 
an  interest  in  Giovanni  and  Corona,  the  historian  may 
once  more  resume  his  task  and  set  forth  in  succession  the 
circumstances  through  which  they  have  passed  since  that 
memorable  morning  they  spent  at  the  Palazzo  Monte- 
varchi.  They  themselves  are  facts,  and,  as  such,  are  a 
part  of  the  century  in  which  we  live ;  whether  they  are 
interesting  facts  or  not,  is  for  others  to  judge,  and  if  the 
verdict  denounces  them  as  flat,  unprofitable  and  alto 
gether  dull,  it  is  not  their  fault;  the  blame  must  be 
imputed  to  him  who,  knowing  them  well,  has  failed  in 
an  honest  attempt  to  show  them  as  they  are. 

THE    END. 

Typography  by  J.  S.  Gushing  &  Co.,  Boston,  U.S.A. 
Presswork  by  Berwick  &  Smith,  Boston,  U.S.A. 


LIST  OF  WORKS 

BY 

MR.  F.  MARION    CRAWFORD. 


A    NEW     NOVEL. 

PIETRO  GHISLERI. 

12mo,  cloth,  $1.00.     In  the  uuiforra  edition  of  Mr.  Crawford's 
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THE   NOVEL.    WHAT   IT   IS. 

By  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD,  author  of  "Children  of  the  King," 
"  Saracinesca, "  etc.,  etc.  Uniform  with  the  pocket  edition  of 
Willian  Winter's  Works.  With  photogravure  portrait.  18mo, 
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*4f*  Also  a  large-paper  limited  edition.     12mo,  $2.00. 

"  Mr.  Crawford  in  the  course  of  this  readable  little  essay  touches  upon  such 
topics  as  realism  and  romanticism,  the  use  of  dialect,  the  abuse  of  scientific 
information,  the  defects  of  historical  fiction.  Mr.  Crawford's  discussion  of 
what  does  and  what  does  not  constitute  the  novel  will  be  read  with  eager 
interest  by  the  large  company  of  his  sincere  admirers  in  this  country.  "—Beacon. 


CHILDREN   OF  THE   KING. 

A  Tale  of  Southern  Italy.     12mo,  cloth,  $1.00. 

"  A  sympathetic  reader  cannot  fail  to  be  impressed  with  the  dramatic  power 
of  this  story.  The  simplicity  of  nature,  the  uncorrupted  truth  of  a  soul,  have 
been  portrayed  by  a  master-hand.  The  suddenness  of  the  unforeseen  tragedy 
at  the  last  renders  the  incident  of  the  story  powerful  beyond  description.  One 
can  only  feel  such  sensations  as  the  last  scene  of  the  story  incites.  It  may  be 
added  that  if  Mr.  Crawford  has  written  some  stones  unevenly,  he  has  made  no 
mistakes  in  the  stories  of  Italian  life.  A  reader  of  them  cannot  fail  to  gain  a 
clearer,  fuller  acquaintance  with  the  Italians  and  the  artistic  spirit  that  per 
vades  the  country.1'— M.  L.  B.  in  Syracuse  Journal. 


MACMILLAN  &  Co.  take  pleasure  in  announcing  that  they  have 
added  the  following  volumes  (with  the  author's  latest  revisions)  to 
their  uniform  edition  of  the  Works  of  Mr.  F.  Marion  Crawford, 
thereby  enabling  them  to  issue  a  complete  edition  of  all  his  novels  : 

A  ROMAN  SINGER.    New  Edition,  revised  and  corrected. 
TO  LEEWARD.        PAUL  PATOFF. 

AN    AMERICAN    POLITICIAN.     New  Edition,  revised 
and  partly  rewritten. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO.,    Publishers, 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


A   CIGARETTE-MAKER'S    ROMANCE. 

"It  is  a  touching  romance,  filled  with  scenes  of  great  dramatic 
power." — Boston  Commercial  Bulletin. 

"It  is  full  of  life  and  movement,  and  is  one  of  the  best  of  Mr. 
Crawford's  books." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"  The  interest  is  unflagging  throughout.  Never  has  Mr.  Craw 
ford  done  more  brilliant  realistic  work  than  here.  But  his  realism 
is  only  the  case  and  cover  for  those  intense  feelings  which,  placed 
under  no  matter  what  humble  conditions,  produce  the  most  dramatic 
and  the  most  tragic  situations.  .  .  .  This  is  a  secret  of  genius,  to 
take  the  most  coarse  and  common  material,  the  meanest  surround 
ings,  the  most  sordid  material  prospects,  and  out  of  the  vehement 
passions  which  sometimes  dominate  all  human  beings  to  build  up 
with  these  poor  elements  scenes  and  passages,  the  dramatic  and  emo 
tional  power  of  which  at  once  enforce  attention  and  awaken  the  pro- 
foundest  interest." — New  York  Tribune. 

' '  In  the  '  Cigarette-maker's  Eomance  '  Mr.  Crawford  may  be  said 
to  have  given  new  evidence  of  the  novel-maker's  art.  .  .  .  It  is  to  be 
hoped  that  every  one  who  reads  Mr.  Crawford's  tale  will  heed  of  the 
rare  finish  of  his  literary  work,  a  model  in  its  kind." — The  Critic. 


GREIFENSTEIN. 

"  '  Greifenstein  '  is  a  remarkable  novel,  and  while  it  illustrates 
once  more  the  author's  unusual  versatility,  it  also  shows  that  he  has 
not  been  tempted  into  careless  writing  by  the  vogue  of  his  earlier 
books.  .  .  .  There  is  nothing  weak  or  small  or  frivolous  in  the  story. 
The  author  deals  with  tremendous  passions  working  at  the  height  of 
their  energy.  His  characters  are  stern,  rugged,  determined  men  and 
women,  governed  by  powerful  prejudices  and  iron  conventions,  types 
of  a  military  people,  in  whom  the  sense  of  duty  has  been  cultivated 
until  it  dominates  all  other  motives,  and  in  whom  the  principle  of 
'  noblesse  oblige  '  is,  so  far  as  the  aristocratic  class  is  concerned,  the 
fundamental  rule  of  conduct.  What  such  people  may  be  capable  of 
is  startlingly  shown." — New  York  Tribune. 

"...  Another  notable  contribution  to  the  literature  of  the  day.  It 
possesses  originality  in  its  conception  and  is  a  work  of  unusual  abil 
ity.  Its  interest  is  sustained  to  the  close,  and  it  is  an  advance  even 
on  the  previous  work  of  this  talented  author.  Like  all  Mr.  Craw 
ford's  work  this  novel  is  crisp,  clear,  and  vigorous,  and  will  be  read 
with  a  great  deal  of  interest." — New  York  Evening  Telegram. 

4 


MR.     ISAACS. 

A  TALE  OF   MODERN   INDIA. 

"  The  writer  first  shows  the  hero  in  relation  with  the  people  of 
the  East  and  then  skilfully  brings  into  connection  the  Anglo-Saxon 
race.  It  is  in  this  showing  of  the  different  effects  which  the  two 
classes  of  minds  have  upon  the  central  figure  of  the  story  that  one  of 
its  chief  merits  lies.  The  characters  are  original  and  one  does  not 
recognize  any  of  the  hackneyed  personages  who  are  so  apt  to  be  con 
sidered  indispensable  to  novelists,  and  which,  dressed  in  one  guise  or 
another,  are  but  the  marionettes,  which  are  all  dominated  by  the 
same  mind,  moved  by  the  same  motive  force.  The  men  are  all 
endowed  with  individualism  and.  independent  life  and  thought.  .  .  . 
There  is  a  strong  tinge  of  mysticism  about  the  book  which  is  one  of 
its  greatest  charms." — Boston  Transcript. 

"  No  story  of  human  experience  that  we  have  met  with  since 
'  John  Inglesant '  has  such  an  effect  of  transporting  the  reader  into 
regions  differing  from  his  own.  '  Mr.  Isaacs '  is  the  best  novel  that 
has  ever  laid  its  scenes  in  our  Indian  dominions." — The  Daily  News, 
London. 

"  This  is  a  fine  and  noble  story.  It  has  freshness  like  a  new  and 
striking  scene  on  which  one  has  never  looked  before.  It  has  character 
and  individuality.  It  has  meaning.  It  is  lofty  and  uplifting,  It  is 
strongly,  sweetly,  tenderly  written.  It  is  in  all  respects  an  uncommon 
novel.  ...  In  fine,  '  Mr.  Isaacs  '  is  an  acquaintance  to  be  made. " 

— The  Literary  World, 

DR.    CLAUDIUS. 

A  TRUE  STORY. 

"There  is  a  suggestion  of  strength,  of  a  mastery  of  facts,  of  a 
fund  of  knowledge,  that  speaks  well  for  future  production.  ...  To 
be  thoroughly  enjoyed,  however,  this  book  must  be  read,  as  no  mere 
cursory  notice  can  give  an  adequate  idea  of  its  many  interesting 
points  and  excellences,  for  without  a  doubt  '  Dr.  Claudius  '  is  the 
most  interesting  book  that  has  been  published  for  many  months,  and 
richly  deserves  a  high  place  in  the  public  favor. "— St.  Louis  Spectator. 

"  'Dr.  Claudius'  is  surprisingly  good,  coming  after  a  story  of  so 
much  merit  as  'Mr.  Isaacs.'  The  hero  is  a  magnificent  specimen  of 
humanity,  and  sympathetic  readers  will  be  fascinated  by  his  chival 
rous  wooing  of  the  beautiful  American  countess." — Boston  Traveller. 

' '  To  our  mind  it  by  no  means  belies  the  promises  of  its  predecessor. 
The  story,  an  exceedingly  improbable  and  romantic  one,  is  told  with 
much  skill ;  the  characters  are  strongly  marked  without  any  suspi 
cion  of  caricatiire,  and  the  author's  ideas  on  social  and  political  sub 
jects  are  often  brilliant  and  always  striking.  It  is  no  exaggeration  to 
say  that  there  is  not  a  dull  page  in  the  book,  which  is  peculiarly  adapted 
for  the  recreation  of  student  or  thinker.  "—Living  Church. 

5 


WITH    THE    IMMORTALS. 

"Altogether  an  admirable  piece  of  art  worked  in  the  spirit  of  a 
thorough  artist.  Every  reader  of  cultivated  tastes  will  find  it  a  book 
prolific  in  entertainment  of  the  most  refined  description,  and  to  all 
such  we  commend  it  heartily." — Boston  Saturday  Evening  Gazette. 

"The  strange  central  idea  of  the  story  could  have  occurred  only 
to  a  writer  whose  mind  was  very  sensitive  to  the  current  of  modern 
thought  and  progress,  while  its  execution,  the  setting  it  forth  in 
proper  literary  clothing,  could  be  successfully  attempted  only  by  one 
whose  active  literary  ability  should  be  fully  equalled  by  his  power  of 
assimilative  knowledge  both  literary  and  scientific,  and  no  less  by 
his  courage  and  capacity  for  hard  work.  The  book  will  be  found  to 
have  a  fascination  entirely  new  for  the  habitual  reader  of  novels. 
Indeed  Mr.  Crawford  has  succeeded  in  taking  his  readers  quite  above 
the  ordinary  plane  of  novel  interest." — Boston  Advertiser. 

MARZIO'S    CRUCIFIX. 

"  We  take  the  liberty  of  saying  that  this  work  belongs  to  the 
highest  department  of  character-painting  in  words." — Churchman. 

"  'Marzio's  Crucifix'  is  another  of  those  tales  of  modern  Rome 
which  show  the  author  so  much  at  his  ease.  A  subtle  compound  of 
artistic  feeling,  avarice,  malice,  and  criminal  frenzy  is  this  carver  of 
silver  chalices  and  crucifixes." — The  Times. 

' '  We  have  repeatedly  had  occasion  to  say  that  Mr.  Crawford  pos 
sesses  in  an  extraordinary  degree  the  art  of  constructing  a  story.  His 
sense  of  proportion  is  just,  and  his  narrative  flows  along  with  ease 
and  perspicuity.  It  is  as  if  it  could  not  have  been  written  otherwise, 
so  naturally  does  the  story  unfold  itself,  and  so  logical  and  consistent 
is  the  sequence  of  incident  after  incident.  As  a  story  '  Marzio's  Cru 
cifix'  is  perfectly  constructed." — New  York  Commercial  Advertiser- 

KHALED. 

A  STORY  OF  ARABIA. 

"Throughout  the  fascinating  story  runs  the  subtlest  analysis, 
suggested  rather  than  elaborately  worked  out,  of  human  passion  and 
motive,  the  building  out  and  development  of  the  character  of  the 
woman  who  becomes  the  hero's  wife  and  whose  love  he  finally  wins 
being  an  especially  acute  and  highly-finished  example  of  the  story 
teller's  art.  .  .  .  That  it  is  beautifully  written  and  holds  the  interest 
of  the  reader,  fanciful  as  it  all  is,  to  the  very  end,  none  who  know 
the  depth  and  artistic  finish  of  Mr.  Crawford's  work  need  be  told. 

— The  Chicago  Times. 

"It  abounds  in  stirring  incidents  and  barbaric  picturesqueness  ; 
and  the  love  struggle  of  the  unloved  Khaled  is  manly  in  its  simplicity 
and  noble  in  its  ending.  Mr.  Crawford  has  done  nothing  better  than, 
if  he  has  done  anything  as  good  as,  '  Khaled.'  " — The  Mail  and  Ex 
press. 


ZOROASTER. 

' '  The  novel  opens  with  a  magnificent  description  of  the  march  of 
the  Babylonian  court  to  Belshazzar's  feast,  with  the  sudden  and  awful 
ending  of  the  latter  by  the  marvellous  writing  on  the  wall  which 
Daniel  is  called  to  interpret.  From  that  point  the  story  moves  on  in  a 
series  of  grand  and  dramatic  scenes  and  incidents  which  will  not  fail 
to  hold  the  reader  fascinated  and  spell-bound  to  the  end." — Christian 
at  Work. 

' '  The  field  of  Mr.  Crawford's  imagination  appears  to  be  un 
bounded.  ...  In  'Zoroaster'  Mr.  Crawford's  winged  fancy  ventures 
a  daring  flight.  .  .  .  Yet  '  Zoroaster  '  is  a  novel  rather  than  a  drama. 
It  is  a  drama  in  the  force  of  its  situations  and  in  the  poetry  and 
dignity  of  its  language ;  but  its  men  and  women  are  not  men  and 
women  of  a  play.  By  the  naturalness  of  their  conversation  and  be 
havior  they  seem  to  live  and  lay  hold  of  our  human  sympathy  more 
than  the  same  characters  on  a  stage  could  possibly  do." — The 
Times. 

"  As  a  matter  of  literary  art  solely,  we  doubt  if  Mr.  Crawford  has 
ever  before  given  us  better  work  than  the  description  of  Belshazzar's 
feast  with  which  the  story  begins,  or  the  death-scene  with  which  it 
closes." — The  Christian  Union. 


A    TALE    OF    A    LONELY    PARISH. 

"It  is  a  pleasure  to  have  anything  so  perfect  of  its  kind  as  this 
brief  and  vivid  story.  ...  It  is  doubly  a  success,  being  full  of  human 
sympathy,  as  well  as  thoroughly  artistic  in  its  nice  balancing  of  the 
unusual  with  the  commonplace,  the  clever  juxtaposition  of  innocence 
and  guilt,  comedy  and  tragedy,  simplicity  and  intrigue." — Critic. 

"Of  all  the  stories  Mr.  Crawford  has  written,  it  is  the  most  dra 
matic,  the  most  finished,  the  most  compact.  .  .  .  The  taste  which  is 
left  in  one's  mind  after  the  story  is  finished  is  exactly  what  the  fine 
reader  desires  and  the  novelist  intends.  ...  It  has  no  defects.  It  is 
neither  trifling  nor  trivial.  It  is  a  work  of  art.  It  is  perfect." 

—Boston  Beacon. 

"  The  plot  is  unfolded  and  the  character-drawing  given  with  the 
well-known  artistic  skill  of  Mr.  Crawford,  and  to  those  who  have  not 
before  read  it  this  story  will  furnish  a  rare  literary  treat. " 

— Home  Journal 
7 


MACMILLAN'S  DOLLAR  NOVELS. 


MACMILLAN  &  CO.  beg  to  announce  that  they  are  now  pub 
lishing  a  SERIES  OF  COPYRIGHT  NOVELS,  by  well-known 
authors,  at  the  uniform  price  of  one  dollar  per  volume. 

THE  THREE  FATES.     By  F.  MARION  CRAWFORD.    Ready. 

HELEN  TREVERYAN;  or,  The  Ruling  Race.  By  JOHN 
ROY.  In  the  Press. 

THE  STORY  OF  DICK.     BY  Major  E.  GAMBIER  PARRY. 

In  the  Press. 

DENZIL  QUARRIER.  By  GEORGE  GISSING,  author  of 
"  Demos,"  "  The  Nether  World,"  etc.  Ready. 

THE  LESSON  OF  THE  MASTER,  and  Other  Stories.  By 
HENRY  JAMES.  Ready. 

GRANIA.  The  Story  of  an  Island.  By  the  Hon.  EMILY  LAW 
LESS.  Ready. 

NEVERMORE.  By  ROLF  BOLDREWOOD,  author  of  "  Robbery 
under  Arms,"  etc.  Ready. 

THE  HISTORY  OF  DAVID  GRIEVE.  By  Mrs.  HUMPHRY 
WARD.  Ready. 

A  STRANGE  ELOPEMENT.  By  W.  CLARK  RUSSELL.  With 
Illustrations  by  W.  H.  OVEREND.  Ready. 

MARIAM.     By  HORACE  VICTOR.  Ready. 

ARNE  and  THE  FISHER  LASSIE.  By  BJORNSON.  Trans 
lated  from  the  Norse.  Ready. 

THE  BURNING  OF  ROME.  A  Story  of  the  Days  of  Nero. 
With  Coloured  Illustrations.  By  the  Rev.  Prof.  A.  J. 
CHURCH.  Ready. 

TIM :   A  Story  of  School  Life.     By  a  New  Writer.         Ready, 

CECILIA  DE  NOEL.  By  LANOE  FALCONER,  author  of  "  Made 
moiselle  Ixe."  Ready. 

BLANCHE,  LADY  FALAISE.  By  J.  H.  SHORTHOUSE,  author 
of  "  John  Inglesant."  Ready. 

LIFE'S  HANDICAP.  Stories  of  Mine  Own  People.  By 
RUDYARD  KIPLING.  Ready. 

THE  WITCH  OF  PRAGUE.  A  Fantastic  Tale.  By  F. 
MARION  CRAWFORD.  With  numerous  Illustrations.  Ready. 


MACMILLAN   &   CO., 

66   FIFTH   AVENUE,  NEW  YORK. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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